


"two super-slut soldiers and a professional liar."

by buckydeservedmorepassiton (bexwastaken)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, How Do I Tag, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson, Shameless Smut, Sub Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, idk how tags work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:16:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexwastaken/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: The Sokovia Accords tore the team in half, but empty apologies and worthless promises brought them back together. Lies end up bringing Steve and Natasha back to New York, where they face the fallout head-on, but their façade quickly crumbles. Clint Barton and Peter Parker are taken hostage, and only one person has the knowledge necessary to get them back.James Barnes is one of the few people in the world who Steve knows better than he knows himself, the only person he'd lay his life down for-yet he's kept him locked up and away, under the pretense that it would somehow save him. Natasha is the only one brave enough to do what needs to be done to save their friends, but at a hefty cost.





	1. confined

**Author's Note:**

> hi! <3
> 
> this is the first fic I'm posting to ao3 after many years of hanging around, lurking in the views, lol.
> 
> lemme know if you guys like it! 
> 
> I'd be more than grateful for any constructive criticism or suggestions for future chapters!

“She what?” James says, finally looking up from his work; cleaning clothing in one hand, P1911 in the other.

Something Steve said had caught his attention. Something about being stuck here until Natasha returned—whenever that would be.

“She—,” he sighs, “Are you even— she _left_ me here, James. ‘Said she’d be back whenever she gets back.”

James returned to cleaning his gun, cocking it back and then watching snap back into place, mindless dedication to the task stitched into his expression. “I see.”

“‘I see’?” Steve says, approaching the kitchen island, where James took an instinctive step back, and loaded the gun. Unfazed, Steve continued, “Well don’t just stand there, how do you get out of this place?”

A small knowing smile creeped across James’ lips, and Steve knew what he would say before he even said it. “There is no way out. You made sure of that. Remember?” 

     Steve took a long glance around the large, industrial loft. It was bare—just like he left it before having James locked up here. He had his reasons, not that they mattered, of course. The loft was lifeless and empty, as if  James hadn’t been living here for months. Well,  _living_ was a bit of a stretch--existing with running water and food was probably closer to the truth. _Imprisoned_  was the truth, but Steve wouldn't bring himself to even think the word. 

“Why’d she bring you here?” Bucky says, setting the pistol into it’s case with a soft, delicate touch. He was looking up at Steve now with full attention, ready to read into every slight expression, the way only he could. “Doesn’t she know you’d rather be _literally_ anywhere else?”

Steve cut his eyes at him. “You know that’s not true.”

“Sure fucking seems like it.” He says, his jaw clenching, eyes still trained on Steve’s. 

Rogers couldn’t help but break the stare—he was ashamed of his choices as of late, especially those affecting James.— and discomfort swelled in his chest. His face felt hot under James’ glare. Finally, after a few second’s reprieve, he looked up and repeated, “That’s not true.”

“You know, I spent the first few weeks convinced that this was a temporary fix.” James says, a soft regretful smile on his lips. “Then a month rolled by without a peep out of you.”

James starts walking towards Steve now; he blows out a long labored sigh, and absently touches his fleshed arm to his metal one, the cold touch grounding him. One long leg after the other, he approaches Steve—it’s menacing, but familiar.

Now he’s just inches away from his oldest friend. “Then Romanov stopped by.” 

Steve wasn’t capable of hiding his emotions—at least not around James. He tries mercilessly, but his eyes must have widened, or his eyebrow twitched, because James’ eyebrows shot up. “Oh. You didn’t know.” 

Steve looked down, desperately avoiding James’ eyes. “No.”

“Well,” his tongue lingers on his lip, on the ‘l’ sound for a moment. “she did. She told me that she wasn’t sure how long you’d keep me here, because you didn’t trust me fully yet.” 

He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground beside them, fixed on James’ shadow.

“That’s when I realized that I wasn’t sent away because—I don’t know— the government, or the Avengers wanted me tucked away somewhere until the heat died down. No. It was you, because you didn’t _trust me_. You took me out of a box, and stuffed me into another one—and didn’t have the decency to stick me under the ice first?” James says, his voice rising. 

“Would you have wanted that?” Steve snaps back, letting his eyes linger on Barnes’s heated gaze a moment too long. “You’d prefer me have put you to sleep?”

“I don’t know about you Rodgers, but I’ve been asleep a loooong time.” he says, sarcasm lacing his words. he takes a step back, extending his hands out for emphasis. “So long that being awake seems so much longer than I remember—days seem to last forever—did you feel that? When they woke you up?”

Steve’s heart sinks, but he nods, “Yes. Cryo can alter your perception of time.”

James shoves his forearm across Steve’s chest, and pushes him back a few feet until his back hits the wall. They were close, so close Steve could see the little flecks of brown in the ring of gray in Bucky's eyes. “Yeah? My perception of time is altered? I feel like I’ve been awake for decades, Rogers, _decades_ ,  just waiting to hear your voice tell me that Natasha was wrong—or misunderstood, or she _lied_ — and that you didn’t lock me up in some fucking silo because you didn’t _trust_ me.”

“How could I?” He snaps back, “You tried to kill me—you tried to kill Tony!”

“ _But I didn’t.”_

“But you _could have_!” 

     A moment passes, the two staring at each other. There’s so much to say, so much frustration rattling around in James’ head, and although he’d had more than enough time to think about what he wanted to say—how he wanted to yell at Steve— it was completely escaping him. Steve wanted to explain, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Bucky wasn’t ready yet.

“I wouldn’t hurt you and you know that.” James scoffs, returning his arm to his side, he turns and begins to walk to the staircase up to the lofted bedroom.

“Bucky—”

He stalls and stops walking, and hesitantly says, in a low voice, “Don’t call me that.” 

“Bucky this is ridiculous, you’re acting as if—,” 

He turned around and the look on his face alone stopped the words from coming out of Steve’s mouth.

James narrows his eyes and more firmly says, “You don’t get to call me that anymore.” 

Steve narrows his eyes, unsure of just what to make of that. “What? Bucky? This is insane, we’ve known each other longer than any two people have ever known one other, I had my reasons, and believe me, I would explain further if I could—”

“We’ve known each other longer than any two people have ever known one another, and you’ve got shit you can’t explain to me? Secrets kept apart from the world’s oldest friends? Alright.”

“Fuck, James, you know what I mean.” Steve yells, “Why are you being so difficult?”

“Because you don’t get it, Steve.” James says, his eyes slowly—but ever so lightly, as Steve notices— glassing over with tears. 

He takes a step closer, “James?”

“Do you know when I last slept? Well of course not—you couldn’t. This is the first you’ve seen me in what, fourteen months?”

Steve takes another step closer. 

“It’s been twenty-four days. And I didn’t lay down go to sleep then, either—no, my body shut down, and I slept for four days straight—which of course felt like four minutes compared to the month I’d stayed up before that. I can’t sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep, not since Zola first woke me up, and you would know that if you would have just _once_ asked me how I was doing.”

Steve felt his stomach sink down to his toes. He’d been so preoccupied by trying to save Buck that he hadn't realized that he’d managed to hurt him in the process. Suddenly, Steve’s chest swells with regret, and a imminent urge to console the other man.

“But you didn’t. Instead, you sent me to this windowless _box_ with enough MREs to last the rest of my miserable life. But you know what Steve? As much as I hate you right now, as much as I want to figure out why you _really_ sent me here, I want to fucking sleep. If you’re here, I can at least be safe enough to sleep for a few hours.” 

     James didn’t look up at Steve’s face again. He just started for the loft, taking the top rung into his metal arm, and swinging his body up into the space. He settled onto the mattress and just as he felt enough security to let his eyelids to flutter shut, he watched Steve swipe the back of his hand under his eye to smear a tear, and then he was asleep. 

 

***

  

     Steve couldn't do much over the next few days besides sit and stare longingly at his friend's sleeping body. There were so many things he wanted to tell him, so many overdue 'I'm sorry's to be confessed, but first, the man had to sleep. He's sitting against the wall Buck had him pinned against three days ago, quietly lost in thought. Ever so often, Buck shifts in his sleep, or mumbles something against the pillows, and Steve will croon his neck up to make sure the other man wasn't in danger. Not that danger could ever reach them here, Steve had made sure of it. 

     The loft was Natasha's, gifted to Steve so he and James would have somewhere safe to stash themselves when S.H.I.E.L.D and Stark came looking for them. It's undoubtedly her style: clean lines and dark materials, contrasted by pure white walls. The loft was settled above the bathroom, equipped with a ladder that led to the space above, currently the bedroom. Steve had seen it before as an armory with guns and blades lining the walls, but she'd thought ahead and put the bed in for them. Where Steve is sitting now is the wall beside to the loft, where a large reinforced glass window is one of the only sources of natural light, save a small round skylight in the loft. There wasn't much to see out of it, just the tops of trees as far as the horizon, and a cloudless blue sky against them.

     The living room was in front of him, furnished with one long gray couch, and a small leather chair. Minimal--Just like Nat. The kitchen was off to his right, filled with metal anywhere the spy could fit it in. The kitchen island was an industrial metal table, the cabinets a bright white front set in a steel frame, with a steel handle. Metal shelves are on either side, packed with neatly organized rows of MREs.

     Natasha didn't design this space to be inhabited very long, or even by choice. It was one of her many safe houses, somewhere secluded enough to keep her safe in the event of an emergency, but inconspicuous enough to not be investigated by the locals. Steve hadn't intended to have James here this long, he really hadn't. Things just never seemed to go the Captain's way, no matter how hard he tried to bend and twist fate to suit his needs. James was supposed to be here a few weeks, tops. However long it would take him to enlist the Wakandan princess's help, and fabricate a reason to have her in the country legitimately should have taken the most time, but it didn't. 

     Shuri was more than willing to come help, and quickly found a reason to be in America. Along with Natasha, she spent weeks re-wiring James' brain, repressing his dangerous tendencies, while doing their best to keep him, well,  _him_. Steve had realized, watching them hover over his best guy's body working with technology he didn't understand, that he'd effectively taken the choice away from James. If he didn't want to be changed, Steve had just taken that away from him, and hadn't even thought twice about it. After they'd finished, Steve was so conflicted and felt so unbelievably selfish that he didn't know what to do. As always, there was only one person who knew the right thing to say to him in any situation: Natasha.

     She knew Bucky would be asleep for a few weeks, as Shuri had explained he needed to be placed into a low-function coma in order to heal. So she convinced Steve to return to New York, to make his peace with Tony and quit running from S.H.I.E.L.D., and then, when it was safe, he could return to James' side. That way, he could at least test the waters and see if the rest of the team was even slightly receptive to bringing Barnes' on board. He'd concocted some lie--God, he couldn't even keep his lies straight anymore-- about losing Barnes in Europe, and not being able to find him. Fortunately, no one bothered to look into that, at least not that he knows of. Stark had probably looked. Stark is probably  _still_ looking.

Having been lost in his thoughts, he immediately jumps out of them when Bucky's breathing hitches, and find himself at his feet, peeking up into the loft. The other man is laid on the large mattress, not having bothered to actually get  _into_ the bed, rather just laying on top of the made sheets. His fingers clench around the edge of the blankets, and his brows knit together angrily. He murmurs something to himself and turns his head further into the pillows.

The word is just a whisper, but Steve hears it, muffled against the plush pillows, "Stevie,"

Steve's heart immediately sank, weighed down by guilt stronger than he'd ever felt before. James was having a nightmare, and he was a part of it. 

He let himself sink down the floor again, and grumbled needlessly about fucking up, yet again.  

 

 


	2. 'i'm not a fucking flesh-light'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened here, I promise there's a plot in there somewhere. Please don't hate me for the porn <3 xx

     Steve had two more days of solid reflection, and came to the conclusion that he was, most definitely, an idiot. Buck was asleep for almost a four days now, never quite looking _completely_ asleep, but never once waking up. He remembers, this is the low-functioning REM sleep Shuri had told him about: a little line of code somewhere in his genes that warned him when he was too sleep deprived—for a super soldier that was anywhere from fifteen to thirty days spent awake— to find the safest possible place to rest. When he found himself tucked away safely and his mind found no imminent threat, his eyes would flutter shut, his breathing slow to just a few deep breaths a minute, and his body ceased normal function—leaving him in a state of hibernation similar to other mammals. 

     So James was still blissfully asleep, and the quiet was driving Steve a little batty. Steve couldn’t help it. He felt so guilty, so ashamed for hurting Bucky—without even trying to—that he couldn’t stop himself from slowly climbing the ladder up to the loft, and settling right beside his best friend’s sleeping body. 

     He was warm, heat radiating off of him and into the sheets around him. Steve swung a blanket over Bucky’s legs, and slowly dragged it up his body. James snored lightly, his body positioned as if he could wake up any moment, ready for a fight. Steve could only imagine how many times he’d needed to do just that, to the point that sleeping lightly became more of an unconscious habit than a necessity.

     Buck was always warm and comforting. Even when they were younger. James Barnes’s skin was always hot and welcoming, strong, and smelled like home. Steve knew that he shouldn’t be here—he doesn’t deserve to call Bucky his friend anymore— not after essentially imprisoning him, and Bucky probably didn’t even consider him a _friend_ anymore. Steve couldn’t even blame Hydra for losing him since Shuri had re-wired his brain to create a circuit around the memories of his old life. As much as the princess loved a puzzle, she couldn’t in good conscience try to erase the commands and memories completely, because there was a strong possibility that she could have ended up tampering with his _real_ memories, leaving Buck a shell of a man with no experiences.

But there he was, after all these months, comfortable enough to rest unabashedly in Steve’s presence. 

“Fuck,” Steve whimpers, unable to prevent himself from reaching a curious hand out to gently slip a lock of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Buck’s breathing hitches, and Steve stiffened like a board, trying desperately not to move. His lashes fluttered gently; but he remained asleep, shifting a little so now his metal arm was free and settling on his abdomen.

     Steve’s mouth went dry. That hand—Buck’s metal hand— with those impossibly sexy fingers, long and slender, and _metal_. Buck’s middle and pointer finger gently touch in a slow, sleepy shift, and Steve couldn’t help himself—he really couldn’t. All he could see was those fingers, covered in Buck’s spit, slowly sliding in his own body. He was so _nasty_ he could groan—but that would wake his sleeping counterpart and ruin his dirty little fantasy.

 _He shouldn’t_ , he thought. It was wrong, and Buck would be so angry. It’s not like they hadn’t done things like the sort in the past, because they’d done _much_ worse in the past. But Steve couldn’t help himself, really, because although it was wrong, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze a hot load out beside his best friend, even if he were _hibernating_.

     Slowly, Steve unbuckles his pants, and slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He was already embarrassingly hard, just from watching the slightest twitch of James’ fingers. He had been thinking about him everyday for the last year, and almost every night, when he’d curl up in his bed and imagine his friend, his _Buck,_ his _lover_ , and mercilessly fuck his fist. Tonight, was no exception, and _good god,_ he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him.

     Steve had slept with other people, shamelessly, in an attempt to get past Barnes. It started with women, one a month or so, so that Tony and the others couldn’t berate him for being a womanizer, or stage an intervention. Then he got messy, _needy_ , and one a month became two, two became four, and before he knew it he’d escort one dame out of the tower, fix his hair, and escort another in. Then he figured, maybe it’s not Bucky, maybe its just _boys;_ and so he swapped four girls a month for four _boys_ a month, and although they came closer, none of them were enough _._ They just didn’t satiate him the way he needed. Tasha would simply eye him in that way only she could, and it would say everything he didn’t want to admit to himself—whoever they were, no matter how close in looks— they would _never_ be Bucky.

And here he was, in the fucking flesh, dozing peacefully as Steve pumped his cock inches away.

Hell—he was going to hell, because Steve took one quick breath and knew he would be climaxing soon. He could leave it there, let himself come allover his hand—maybe get a soft whisper of his friend’s name when it happens—but he can’t.

     Carefully, Steve reaches his hand over and takes Buck’s, slowly lining it up to his cock. The cool sensation of the metal tingles, and forces Steve to bite his lip—hard—to avoid moaning like a fucked out little slut. He tightens his sleeping friend’s hand around himself and slowly starts to pump. _This is so fucked,_ he thought, but it didn’t stop him, no, it made his dick _twitch_ with excitement. Maybe Buck would wake up and instinctively tighten his grip— _fuck,_ Steve would come right then.

He’s fucking himself good and hard now, eyes still trained on Bucky’s face, ready to stop at the slightest indication his friend was stirring into consciousness, but then he noticed; Buck’s brow furrowed—ever so slightly— and his lips parted, soft tongue nestled away inside.

 _Fuck_ , Steve whimpered, closing his eyes— _auh, he’s coming—_

“Wha—” Buck whispers, eyes gently opening. It took him a fraction of a second to realize there was another person in the room—right there beside him— and he instinctively flew back off the bed and pointed his gun at the man.

Another half-a-second, and Buck’s eyes adjusted to the dusty, early morning light coming through the skylight and he realized—it was Steve. Still unmoving, the gun pointed directly at the blond, he realizes Steve’s hand is in his pants. His voice is gravelly with sleep when he asks, “What the _fuck_ , Rogers?”

Steve doesn’t respond, he just stares with sex-glazed eyes—hand unmoving, but still in his pants.

Buck relaxes slightly, and assesses his body, he doesn’t feel groped in the least, and his clothes are all in tact. A little bit of disappointment pangs low in his abdomen. Then he rubs his fingers on his metal hand together, and they’re slick; he separates them and a thin line of sticky… _something_ appears between his thumb and forefinger. The sight alone makes Steve let out a little whimper.

“I’m not a _fucking_ Flesh-light.” Barnes says with a dark tone, but moves closer to the bed.

     Steve was sure he was going to get his lights knocked out--he also didn't know what a 'Flesh-light' was-- but Bucky just stops at the edge of the bed. He doesn’t say anything—neither of them do— instead Buck just reaches his pre-come and spit slick metal hand down to Steve’s lips. Like the little _whore_ _he is_ , Steve parts them, permitting Buck to slide them in. Buck does this, but takes his time first running his fingers around _and around_ the blond’s lips. He lets them sit on his bottom lip a second, then dips them in.

Steve swirls his tongue around them, a groan coming from deep in his throat. _Fuck,_ he thought, _this is hot_. Buck sucks them out of Steve’s mouth suddenly, and grips his face, letting his Steve’s own spit slick his jaw. _Fuck, fuck fuck!_ A small smile plays on his lips as James gently taps his four slick fingers against Steve’s cheek.

“Take it out. I want to see it.” Buck says quietly, and Steve all but jumps at the request. Steve’s cock— his _fat_ , _swollen_ _cock_ pops out of his boxers as if it were grateful to be free.

He couldn’t stop himself—and since Bucky didn’t stop him either, he started stroking quick, fast, _filthy_ fucking strokes. Buck slowly slid his hand down Steve’s jaw, with a look of —dare he say it— _satisfaction?_ He let his hand settle on Steve’s neck, and gently gripped around his throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve whimpers, God he wanted this to last forever, he really did. He wanted Buck’s fingers in his ass, or his tongue; or maybe even Buck’s cock in his mouth, and his hand just there, around his neck, forcing him to suck him off. He’d be just where he was now, contentedly whimpering expletives with a hand around his dick pumping roughly.

“ _Fuck_ , fucking _hell_ — _oh_ ,” Buck kept his grip on Steve’s throat, but ran his thumb along the blond’s jawline. That, paired with the look on Buck’s face made Steve shoot off onto his belly, body convulsing with each stream of ejaculate. Buck slowly released his hand, but Steve settled his on it, clutching his metal wrist to stabilize himself. Steve had the hottest sex eyes Buck had ever seen—and he’d only just masturbated. It made his heart skip a beat and quickly redirect his blood to his crotch, where it had steadily been accumulating.

Buck leans down close to Steve’s face, almost as if he were going to kiss his cheek, but instead blinks andsays firmly, “You do that shit again and I’ll kill you the very second I wake up.”

     He jumped off the loft, leaving Steve to gather his post-orgasm mind together, alone. Steve heard the bathroom door shut, and Steve just _knew_ Buck was in there, about to do the same thing he had just done. 

*** 

     Apparently, they were going to act as if the previous night hadn’t happened. When Steve finally stirred awake, Barnes was in the kitchen, making himself an oatmeal MRE. He didn’t say anything when Steve joined him and filled a glass up with water at the tap; he just moved his bowl over slightly so Steve would have room to use the sink. 

Steve wasn’t hungry—not for food at least. 

It took Steve a minute to garner the courage to ask, but he finally did. “Are we—”

“No.” James cut him off, not looking up from his bowl. 

A pang of rejection hit Steve right in the gut, but he persisted. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“No, but I know where you were going with it.”James says icily. His tone would be enough to shut Steve up ordinarily, but persistence ached through his body. Or maybe it was arousal. At this point it didn’t matter. 

“And where is that?” 

Buck set his spoon down and turned around, facing Steve. “Somewhere that results in a heart-to-heart and forgiveness. Quite frankly, I don’t care to. You made your decision when you locked me up here.” 

Steve narrows his eyes, but his voice comes out soft. “Buck, I was going to ask about… last night.” 

He stalls for a second. “Oh.” 

“Oh? Are we not going to talk about it?” 

“Not if I can help it.” He says, returning to his bowl of oatmeal. “There isn’t anything to talk about.”

“James.” It sounded like a plead coming from his lips, but Steve didn’t care.

“What?” He snaps. “What do you want me to say? I’ve been in here—by _myself_ —for over a year. I haven't seen another person since Romanov, and she isn’t exactly my type.” 

_Not his type?_ Steve thought. Romanov is _everyone’s_ type.

“I want you to tell me why you didn’t stop me.” Steve asks, coming closer. Buck steps back, but he’s already against the cabinets. “Why didn’t you just shoot me when you had the chance—when you first woke up?”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes darting in-between Steve’s face and the wall behind him. _He’s nervous_ , that could be a good sign.

“What do you want to hear? That I love you?” Buck says, and Steve immediately felt a vice tighten on his heart. “Well you’re wrong. I was horny, Steve. Is that what you want? I was horny, and there you were, lying in bed next to me, with _my_ hand down your pants.”

“And what, you didn’t think I could handle that?” Steve scoffs, and narrows his eyes. “I’m not a child, James. I’m not asking you to love me forever and ever—I’m asking you to _fuck_ me.”

The two stand inches away from each other. Steve scoffs and starts to walk away, but James grabs his arm. Steve looks at that metal hand, the slender, shiny fingers wrapped around his wrist firmly, and he slowly rakes his eyes up to Buck’s face. There was a dark look in his grey eyes, his pupils looking exceptionally wide.

“Knees.” Buck says quietly. There’s a solemn dominance in his tone, and after a fraction of a second spent being confused, Steve realizes what he meant.

Oh _. Oh, fuck._ Steve gets close to Bucky, standing just in front of him, sizing him up. _Was he really going to make him kneel?_ Bucky looked Steve up and down hungrily, and just the lust in his eyes made the blond sink to his knees submissively.

Buck laces his metal fingers through Steve’s short blond hair, and tugs his head back lightly so he’s looking up at him. Slowly, and with the slightest of touches, he traces his cheekbone, then glides his index finger over Steve’s lips.

Steve lets his mouth slacken, and his eyes flutter open so he could gaze up at Buck. When he did, he couldn’t help the little gasp that escaped him. Buck had his eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed at Steve’s lips, his own lips parted slightly, and a _large_ tent in his pants.

Buck dips his finger into Steve’s mouth, and with his other hand, undoes his fly. Steve moans filthily against the metal in his mouth, swirling his tongue between the fingers, and then sucking contentedly.

“You like that, don’t you?” Buck grumbles, quite satisfied with the position Steve is in. On his knees, ready to give himself up. He’s wanted to see him like this for a long, _long_ time. “You fucking love it.”

     Steve was indeed a sight to see. He’d gotten so into sucking Buck’s fingers that he’d unconsciously spread his legs, and was rubbing himself through his pants. Buck could feel himself growing harder with each time his Stevie wrapped his warm _wet_ tongue around his fingers. Steve savored the coppery taste, moaning appreciatively when those slender fingers stretched out and grazed the back of his throat.

Buck suddenly slips his fingers out and grabs Steve by his jaw roughly _and sloppily_ , gaining a pained little gasp from Steve’s lips. “You look so fucking good down there on your knees.”

 _Fuck!_ for Christ’s sake, Buck was turning him into such a whore _,_ because Steve swore he almost came in his pants just from _hearing_ Buck’s praises. He dips down and kisses him, roughly, tonguing him so hard Steve has to send his hand to the ground so they didn’t fall backwards.

“Let me taste you, _please._ ” Steve whimpers against Bucky’s lips. Buck ignores him. Steve’s pained little begging is _music_ to his ears. “Please, James, I want to taste you. _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ ,”

“Fuck,” Buck moans, breaking their kiss and retuning to his feet. “You want to suck me off, Stevie?”

“Yes— _fuck_ — oh my god, _yes_!” Steve whispers breathlessly, watching with big blue eyes as Buck slips out of his pants.

     There they go, black jeans crumpled on the floor, then the boxers go just after. And fuck, if Steve had begun to forget what Buck’s cock looked like before now, he’d _never_ fucking forget again. There he was, in all his glory—easily nine inches, a slight curve to it, uncut— and Steve’s mouth literally began to water. He would never forget that image: Bucky gripping his dick with his metal hand, hair strewn all-over his head messily, eyes narrowed to slits, and pouty lips slightly parted. _Ahhh, fuck._

Steve all but lunged forward, almost losing his balance and falling over. He flattened his tongue out and licked a wet stripe from the base of Bucky’s cock right to the top, pursed his lips around the glistening tip, and hollowed out his cheeks. Buck groaned something loudly, and it made Steve’s dick twitch in his pants.

     As much as he denies it, Steve does have some _odd_ sexual quirks. There’s the normal vanilla stuff, sure, like messy kissing and light hair pulling—and thats cute, of course, but not enough for him. Not anymore at least. Buck was the only one who made him feel _dirty_ , made him want to do unspeakable things and have all sorts of unholy things done to him.

“Good _God_ , baby.” Buck groans, fisting his hand in Steve’s hair again, watching the blond bob mercilessly back and forth on his cock. “Suck that shit. You look so _pretty_.”

     God, this man was turning him into a faithful little slut. This is the type of stuff that gets him off now. _Praise_. Steve wanted hands all-over his body. He wanted his body bruised by his lover’s mouth. He wanted to feel fucking _sore_ the next day. Most of all, he wanted _James_ ; his metal hand had been the subject of many wet dreams. _God, he could come just thinking about it._ He knew he would love the way it tasted, the way it looked and would feel against his skin. Just knowing that everything Buck felt with his metal arm was felt with twice the sensation made Steve giddy with excitement. _Oh, God,_ he wondered, _imagine how it must feel when he jacks himself off._

     Bucky, consequently, was the sort of lover to indulge in his partner. He had his own kinks of course, but he was typicallya pleaser in bed—unless _(especially if)_ it was Steve. He couldn’t help himself when it came to that goody-two-shoes, all-American boy. He wanted to hold him down and fuck him until he begged him to stop; and then fuck him some more, until his eyes rolled back and he _couldn’t begin to explain_ how hard he was coming. He wanted to wrap his hand around his throat and pound him until all Steve Rogers could manage was hushed pleads to God.

He had to stop Steve, because James was getting close— and he was saving this load for when Steve was an _absolutely miserable, slutty_ mess. “Get on the counter.”

Steve couldn’t handle the excitement in him—adrenaline was surging through his body— he was ready and willing for just about anything Bucky could throw at him. _Oh God,_ he was excited.

     Maybe Buck would spank him, or—or— He lost his train of thought when he settled himself of the metal counter, and Buck’s hand ran up his spine and pushed his shoulders flush against the countertop. His pants peeled down slowly, stopping just below his ass. 

“Oh, you look so fucking sexy like that, Stevie.” Buck says—and he meant it. Steve was face-down, ass-up, with his hands splayed on either side of his head.

Buck slowly runs his fingers over either of Steve’s cheeks, and suddenly Steve felt their absence, before they came back down against his flesh with with a loud, _blissfully painful,_ slap. Steve gasps, “ _Fuck_!”

James plants two kisses on both cheeks and whispers, “Look at you, turning pink for me.”He spreads Steve’s cheeks gently, and uses a flat tongue to swipe over his hole. That sent Steve off the deep end.

     The room was spinning, because Steve wanted so many nasty things to happen, but every time Bucky touched him, or even _said_ something, it was _everything_ and way more than enough to set him off into that pleasurable high that made his joints turn to goop.

“Oh fuck, oh _yes-yesyesyes._ ” Steve murmurs against the countertop, and then lets out a pained little gasp when Bucky slaps his ass again. “ _Ah!”_

Buck _spits_ at his hole, and runs his metal finger against it, and uses his other hand to wrap around Steve’s neglected cock, and begins stroking it.

“Yes, _fuck_ , put it in me James.” Steve whimpers at him. “I want it, _please_.”

“You want it?” Buck says, tapping the finger on the needy hole. “How bad do you want it? Tell me. I want to hear you.”

“I want you to finger me Bucky, _God,_ I want it so bad, I— wanna come—please, m’so hard for you.” Steve whines, wiggling his ass in the air, hoping for the slightest bit of friction against his finger. To hell with his pride, Bucky had him wound up and begging, and Steve knew his orgasm would feel  _so good_ that it would be worth every second of it. 

     Buck gives one more lap at him for good measure, then starts working his finger in. It’s tight, for sure, and Steve starts cursing a long string of _very_ bad words under his breath. Almost as if to say thanks, he reaches his hands down between his legs and claws for Bucky’s cock, so Buck shuffles forward so Steve could take hold of it and cup his hands around it so Buck could stroke into them

     Steve was always the good one. Too timid to talk about sex with _anyone,_ and probably too timid to _have_ sex with anyone. Steve would never forget the first time James had him—it was a lazy Sunday afternoon when they’d come back to base after a failed mission. Their target had _just_ evaded their grasp, and there was nothing more to do until the following day. So they did what any other soldiers would do—they went into town and set their eyes out for pretty ladies. Steve had the body to pull girls in, but hadn’t yet mastered the talk to go along with it, so although James had wooed a dame into letting him spend the night, Steve was in the corner nursing a beer quietly. 

     James was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a bad friend. He couldn’t disappear with a girl and leave his oldest friend all alone, so they went back to base together and settled in his quarters. Steve was a hotshot then, so he got his own tent. It started slow, one shot of cheap liquor turned into five, and soon enough, he was looking at James like he was the hottest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Oddly enough, it was the quiet, reserved Rogers—the kid too saintly to solicit women of the night— who was at Buck’s feet begging to be taken advantage of. Buck quickly slipped out of the daydream when, _fuck,_ Steve brought one hand back to his mouth, swiped it over his tongue, then settled it back to cupping Bucky’s strokes.

“ _God,_ you good little whore.” Buck’s voice almost broke there, but it didn’t matter, because he let another hard slap down against Steve’s ass. This one made the blond cry out, but Buck immediately ducks his head down and leaves a sloppy wet splotch of a kiss against the reddening skin—a little sorry-not-sorry gesture.

     Again, James had to poise himself, because if he didn’t, he would end up blowing his load in between Steve’s hands. _Not a bad way to go_ , he thought, but Steve was taking three of his fingers like a fucking champ, and if that _delicious_ squeeze was any motivation, Buck was suddenly pining to feel his dick in there.

Slowly, he slipped them out, and Steve moaned filthily in their absence, to which Bucky almost chuckled. God, if the world could see him now. Sex-slick, bent over and spread out, wanting— _needing._ America’s golden boy, wrapped up—or _unwrapped_ rather— like a present for him.

James lifted him up, and sauntered them over to the little living room, and set Steve down on the coffee table.“I’m gonna fuck your tight little ass until you come all over yourself. That sound good, Stevie?”

There was a chorus of ' _yes yes yes'_ before Buck slipped his cock into Steve with one solid stroke, right up until his balls touched Steve’s body. Steve shouts some sort of expletive—or maybe a few of them meshed into one.

James saw stars, _he was better than he remembered._ Tight, warm, _familiar,_ and wet with Buck’s own spit—God he was perfect. “M’God, you’re so fucking perfect Stevie.”

Steve reached up his hand and laced it through Buck’s long locks, his lips pursed slightly, “Harder, Bucky.”

And that was it, every drop of self-restraint James had went away, and he yanked Steve’s legs up to his chest, and started drilling him harder. He slammed his lips down on the blond’s, stifling his cries. Between each smack of his hips against Steve, Buck manages, “You good little fucktoy, _shit_ , come for me Stevie. Show me how bad you are, just for me.”

“M’gonna— oh _God_ —“ Then a series of guttural gasps came from Steve against Bucky’s lips. James just kissed him through it, until hot sticky _slick_ began to make squelchy sounds between their stomachs.

Steve’s eyes went slack, glazed over with satisfaction and contentment. He couldn’t find words yet, but Buck just looked down at him with a sleazy smirk. Steve pants, “What’re you smiling about?”

James grinned harder when Steve clamped down his muscles and realized Buck was still inside him—still hard as a rock. Steve’s eyes widened a little bit, and he let out a knowing little groan. James snickers, “Did you think I was done with you, Stevie?”

Steve whined again in response, but Buck was gaining his momentum again, fucking Steve nice and slow until his body adjusted, then he started moving quicker. Buck reaches his metal hand down and slides it over Steve’s come-slick stomach, getting his fingers nice and wet, before bringing them up and sliding them into Steve’s mouth. Steve moans, and Buck already feels him getting hard again.

“How do you taste baby?” Buck asks, his lips making a nice pink welt on Steve’s neck, while fucking him at a substantially quicker pace. He covers the blond’s lips with his own, tasting his salty taste on Steve’s lips. With one smooth swoop, he slips his hand behind Steve’s neck and pulls on his hair, yanking his head back. The other hand is still holding Steve’s right thigh flush against his chest.

It’s just a whisper, but Bucky hears it, and — _God_ — it was just enough. Steve whimpers out a soft, “Come in me Bucky. Deep— _fuck_ — _please,_ ”

     Buck shoots off his load at the same time Steve does—for the second time— and slumps against the blond’s body. Pleasure racked through Steve’s body so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head, and curses fell from his lips like they were all he knew how to say. His body shook, and Buck just braced up against his chest, riding out the pleasure with him. Soon, they couldn’t even speak; fatigue hit them like a ton of bricks. They laid there for a few minutes, fully exhausted, until Buck thought he heard soft little snores coming from the blond.

Buck craned his neck up to peek at Steve’s face. _Motherfucker—_ he actually fell asleep. His long lashes almost grazed his cheekbones, a look of pure satisfaction on his soft features.

     James couldn’t help the satisfied little smile that spread across his face. He’d _actually_ fucked Steve to sleep. Carefully, he collected his lover in his arms, and laid him out on the couch. Then he quickly darted to the kitchen for some tissues, and swiftly returned to clean Steve up.

     Oddly enough, this is when he remembers his bowl of oatmeal sitting in the kitchen. He had been so angry at this man less than an hour ago, and now he was gazing dreamily at his fucked-out lips, and admiring the long lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks. He didn't understand why it felt right, why it felt _familiar_ , but he knew it did. Slowly sliding the wet towel on Steve’s belly, he traced the hollow outlines of his abs, and swore that if he weren’t so tired he’d probably be hard again. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to stay pressed against Steve's warm skin. Once satisfied with the clean up job he managed, he settles behind Steve’s snoring body, wraps his arm around him protectively, and begins to drift asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing an explicit scene like this...or rather posting one. Give me all the feedback, lol! I'm trying to get better at writing bearable smut. xx


	3. boys, interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll, woo! Another chapter! A short one, but it's literally midnight here on the east coast lol! Hope you all enjoy <3 xx.

     When Steve woke up, the first thing he smelled was sweat. Not an overwhelming stench or rank body odor, but rather the comforting smell of a night of passion. He could actually make out a few smells: salty skin, artificially minty toothpaste, and the coppery smell of metal. _Buck,_ he realized, and willed his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a collarbone. He wanted to stretch his limbs, to feel that delicious burn in his joints that comes with being sexed, but the heft of a large body weighed against his own, and since it was Bucky, he didn’t dare move; he didn’t want the closeness to end. 

     He could see Buck’s collarbone, and the curve of his shoulder, and just a wisp of his hair, but nothing more. James had effectively used his body to cage Steve in; he had both arms wrapped around him, one settled on his lower back and the other metal one lingering loosely in his hair.

     Steve took another deep breath, taking in Buck’s scent. Upon further reflection, Steve decided that Buck smelled like an armory—fitting, if you thought about it—almost like clean metal and the charcoal smell of gunpowder.

     Slow and deliberate, Steve left a soft barely-there kiss on the collarbone in front of him. When Buck didn’t stir, he tilted his head just slightly and left another kiss, just where his shoulder met his neck. He felt Buck smile against his forehead, and then surely enough, the brunet began to stir awake. James instinctively began to pull away, to give Steve some space, but the blond just clasped his hand over James’ as it retreated off of his hip, clamping it down where it was.

“No, stay.” Steve whispers, shimmying back down into the comfortable groove against Buck’s body.

Buck smiled again, and spread his fingers out over Steve’s hip, kneading the flesh lightly. “You fit so well there.”

     Steve was smiling now, against Buck’s collar again. It was true—he fit _right there_ pressed against Buck’s body like a puzzle piece. Every contour of James’ frame was met gracefully by Steve’s, like he were made to be right there, shoved up under Buck’s body. The hand laced in Steve’s hair starts to stroke the blond locks lightly, and Steve presses into the feeling. God, he would never get enough of James Barnes. Never.

“God, Steve,” Buck murmurs back the sentiment, making Steve tilt his head back to examine his face. Buck’s eyebrows were knitted together tightly, his eyes searching Steve’s face. “Why does this feel so right?”

“Because it’s me, Bucky.” Steve says, slowly coming to a realization—Buck didn’t remember _them_. He remembered Steve—he felt decades worth of attraction—but he didn’t remember what the two of them had done, _what they had together_. 

     Steve felt his heart sink down to his toes, something he never thought he would feel while laying tightly swaddled in Bucky’s arms. It stung, like getting a bad burn when curiosity led a naive child to a hot stove. He knew it would be like this—every one, _every one_ had warned him that it would be like this—that James wouldn’t remember him.

     Although Tony, Clint, and Sam had meant that he probably wouldn’t remember their shared childhoods, or their time in the war, Natasha always seemed to _know_. She saw the way Steve’s chest tightened when he spoke about James, the way his eyes glassed over when he had seen something that reminded him of his old pal. She knew it from the way his eyes grew angry and his tone grew sharp whenever someone spoke ill of his Winter Soldier.

It almost forced tears to his eyes, but he swallows and blinks them away.

Buck cuts his teeth, none the wiser to where Steve’s thoughts had traveled, and chuckles lightly.

     The little shake of Buck’s shoulders brought Steve back to the moment; he didn’t need to think about that—about the fact that his oldest friend, his _only_ lover, his _Buck_ didn’t remember what they’d shared. It was a scary prospect, but maybe the memories would come back—they had already started to. Buck remembered where Steve liked to be touched, how he liked to be handled and held. Maybe they would all siphon in eventually. Steve selfishly hoped the memories of _him_ came back first, before the memories of HYDRA.

     Willing the thoughts away again, he leans forward and plants a small soft kiss on Bucky’s lips. When the brunet doesn’t kiss back, Steve slips his hand up in his hair and kisses harder. Buck smiles against Steve’s lips, and then finally yields, opening his mouth for the blond to slip his tongue in. A low groan comes from Steve’s throat, and Buck’s hand slipped down to Steve’s ass, rolling his palm against the soft flesh.

     As if it were possible—and it was _only_ possible by the one and only Natasha Romanov— the giant metal door opened so silently, and so slowly, that neither super-soldier noticed it. No, instead they were still kissing, lost in each other and blissfully unaware that the redhead had joined them.

“Should I take a seat?” She asks, crossing her arms across her chest.

     Both men had jumped to sitting position. Buck sat with his metal arm snaked around Steve’s torso, pushing the blond’s body behind his, the other aiming his pistol directly at Natasha. After a breath, he looked down at Steve, who snatched the blanket over his lap in a last-ditch attempt for modesty. The captain closed his eyes tightly, and had little patches of red creeping up his neck and cheeks. If he weren’t equally startled, Buck might have thought of the sight of a blushing Steve Rodgers as arousing.

“Tasha—” Steve starts, finally peeling his eyes open enough to look up at the woman in front of them.

“Yes, Captain, I’ve come to get you and Barnes,” She cuts him off, moving to go through the door again, “I’ll be in the quinjet, but do hurry, I’ll leave with _or_ without you both in ten minutes. Although, I’m not sure you’d mind that.”

     She left, and silence swallowed the two of them. Steve wasn’t ready—he didn’t think Bucky was ready either—but Natasha was wearing tactical gear, with all sorts of weapons strapped to her body. Whatever was happening out there couldn’t wait for him to coach Buck through regaining his memories. Whatever was happening needed him _and Buck_ on the front lines, or else Natasha wouldn’t have come.

“Did you have your suit?” Buck says, reading Steve’s mind. He was already standing—naked—loading his weapons into their respective holders.

“No, just what I was wearing when I got here.” Steve says, and once again just silently as before, the door opened, and Natasha wordlessly tossed a duffle bag at Steve’s chest.

“Eight minutes.” She warns, and disappears again.

Steve swallowed hard. Unzipping the duffel, he's greeted by his suit, folded neatly over his shield.


	4. stark's tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha drags both super-soldiers to The Tower for an emergency assembly. HYDRA agents are regrouping, and the team thinks they know why. Stark, although reformed as much as the billionaire could be, still resents James, and makes it very clear where the two stand with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter four, woo! xx

The helicopter ride was just over two hours long.

     With her signature cadence, it only took Natasha ten minutes for her to explain herself. Things were not looking great back in New York. They were—as Bucky realized he hadn’t even known where Steve had been keeping him, he had just assumed they never left New York —just outside of Philadelphia, on their way back to Stark’s tower.

     Sleeper cells had been activated in Eastern Europe, and HYDRA agents were growing in leaps and bounds. Recruited Neo-nazis and soviet sympathizers across Europe fluffed their ranks with expendable bodies. _They’re expecting a fight,_ he thought, eyes unconsciously roaming to the back of Steve’s head. They’d recently set up a faction somewhere in the city and some of the Avengers were currently trying to pinpoint where.

Both Steve and Natasha, who argued after just about anything the Russian said, went quiet when Bucky asked what the HYDRA agents were looking for.

“Do they need a reason to try and kill us?” Romanov had said, which Steve responded to with a sideways glare.

James had clarified that no, they didn’t, but that they had to have been looking for something if they’d gone as far as to expose their position. The two Avengers shared a glance, and their thoughts became painfully clear to Buck. They were trying to protect him, or at least Steve was. Natasha had almost said it—‘ _they’re looking for you’_ —but Steve shot her a glare, and she snapped her jaw shut.

“I see,” Buck said, met with a sympathetic glance from Steve, but no confirmation.

     It didn’t take long for Buck to see it—the Avenger’s tower. It’s taller than almost all the buildings in Midtown, with the enormous Avenger’s logo at the top. Stark’s tower was beautiful, really, just as gorgeous as he had expected of the man. They land on a helipad that’s quickly covered over by sheathed metal planks, which solicited a sudden spark of panic in Bucky’s chest. But then a smooth snow globe-like glass dome quickly slid over them, then the metal planks retracted and they were _inside_ the tower. Around the dome-covered helipad were all sorts of toys, some of Stark’s suits, and a few vintage cars, but Bucky couldn’t pay attention to those things.

He couldn’t wrap his mind around how _fucking cool_ that was. Steve just glanced at him, as if he didn’t know what was so intriguing. Then again, he’d probably seen that happen a thousand times by this point. Buck exited the helicopter wordlessly behind Natasha and Steve, and they descended a short staircase that appeared at the top of the helipad’s ‘H’

A voice comes from the walls that makes James jump, “Welcome back Agent Romanov, Captain Rogers. Greetings Sergeant Barnes.”

“Thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y. Where is everyone?” Natasha asks, while James cocks an eyebrow at Steve.

“They’re awaiting Sergeant Barnes’s arrival at the sky-deck.” The voice—F.R.I.D.A.Y.—replies.

Natasha didn’t thank F.R.I.D.A.Y. again, they just seemed to change course and presumably start for the sky-deck.

     The architecture actually interested Buck—and he wondered to himself how the hell they managed to build the damn thing. The wall on the right was plain, a long white wall stretching the length of the corridor, with the occasional door or painting. Looking further down the hall, he noticed that the wall was curved, suggesting that it was a circular path around the entire top floor. 

     Compared to the plain white one on the right, the left side of the hallway is utterly breathtaking. Its double walled, the first was almost entirely made of glass six-to seven inches thick—save some dark charcoal-colored metal beams running through to support the glass. The outer wall is a few feet from the first one, and seems to be a hologram of some sort. From the inside, it’s clearly glass through which he could see the rest of midtown, but when they were in the helicopter, it was the same dark glass as the rest of the exterior.

     They turned to the right, through a set of large glass doors, Steve brushing his shoulder and Tasha confidently ahead of them. There was a large metal beam in the shape of an eclipse, spanning the entirety of the huge sky-deck.There’s an opening in the middle of the floor encased with the same thick glass as the wall in the hallway, a tunnel it seemed. By the looks of it, it connected to the hallway and ran straight through the entire building—probably for Stark to fly through whenever he needed to.

     He hears murmurs as they walk further into the room, and almost wants to hide behind Natasha. He sees them, The Avengers—at least some of them. He doesn’t remember their names well, besides the Sam, Tony and obviously Natasha. There're five others in the room. There’s a lady standing to Tony’s left, with long strawberry-blonde hair—Pepper, he thinks, because of how Steve had once described her. There’s two oddly normal-looking men seated on the long sectional, one a light blue shirt with spectacles resting on his hairline, and the other with his prosthetic legs kicked up on the ottoman.

     The other two managed to hold his attention longer than the others. Vision, he thinks his name is—the man is _red,_ how did he not remember him? _—_ has his arm snaked around the waist of a small woman, with scarlet red hair, and doe-like gray eyes.Then his eyes travel to Sam; he has his back towards them, engaged in a conversation with one of the seated men.Instinctively, Buck rakes his eyes back over each person, scanning their expressions for the faintest hint of hostility. No one seems to be upset or angry.

And then there was Stark.

He stands, furthest away, with his arms folded across his chest. The look on his face could kill, anger simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. Bucky knew the feeling—he also knew what happens when that anger heats up enough.

Before he knew it, a pair of arms were wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, and he repressed every inch of instinct calling for him to toss the person clear across the room.

“I’m glad you’re okay, you _motherfucker_.” The husky voice booms, and suddenly, Buck remembers—Sam.

“Sam,” a different voice whispers quietly, _carefully_ —it’s Stark’s, Bucky thinks, “He might not remember you.”

Sam pulled away, a look of all-too-late hesitance on his face. “Oh,”

“No, I do.” Buck says quietly, letting a small smile touch his lips. “You and Steve…you put my arm in a vice.”

Sam laughs, and hugs him again, harder this time. “Yeah, yeah we did.”

 

***

James felt as though time was moving slower than he'd ever felt before. 

     Steve had explained briefly when they were getting dressed earlier that the team didn't know where he had been. Besides Steve, only Natasha had known. Steve had told them that he'd lost Buck's trail somewhere in Germany, and that had been when he returned to New York. Natasha backed his story, and for the most part, no one questioned it. Vision and Wanda had looked for a while, and Sam searched as well, but neither team found him. It stung Bucky a little to know that he was the reason Steve and Natasha were keeping secrets from their friends. 

     There were more pressing matters, though. Like Tony, whose glare never wavered, only burned holes into the side of Bucky's head as he interacted with the rest of the team. As hard as he tried to focus on seeming perfectly normal and sane around these new people, he couldn't help but wince every time he caught a glimpse of Tony. He hadn't sat down, even though everyone else had, and it clearly made everyone uncomfortable.

     Vision seemed the most apprehensive about greeting Bucky. He was Tony's spawn; so it made a little sense to James. When he offered it up to the AI, he regarded Buck's metal arm with a gentle touch and narrowed eyes. His fingers felt uncanny against the metal, James thought, almost like a human's touch, but lacking the weight of one. It made him a little uncomfortable, but he didn't dare show it--he needed these people to like him.

"This is vibranium, yes?" Vision asks carefully running his his thumb over one of the plates. He squeezes lightly, assessing it with careful precision

"I'm not sure, actually." Bucky whispers, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked down at his arm. Vision's red hand was a stark difference to his reflective metal one. _Vibranium,_ he thoughtit sounded familiar but wasn't entirely sure why. 

“Am I done here?” Tony interjects, still standing off to the side, “I agreed to be present when he got here, not to stick around for the welcome party.”

“Jesus Stark—” Natasha whispers,

 James starts to speak, but he hadn’t thought long enough about the words he wanted to say.

     Steve protectively wrapped his fingers around Buck’s forearm, all the while glaring at Stark. James was staring too, for what seemed like ages, because Tony Stark was the spitting image of his father. Tony’s own unique features were settled in Howard’s frame— pronounced cheek bones and jawline—and it made bile start rising in his throat. In flashes, he remembered that night, brutally banging the older Stark’s face into the pavement. It hurt, knowing that Tony _knew_ he’d done this horrible, horrible thing, and still had to stand around and wait for him to waltz into _his_ home, and have _his_ friends fawn over him. James felt his face and neck burning, his chest sinking into his body, aching desperately for a breath.

“It’s cute, it really is.” Stark says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Friends and lovers reunited, it’s touching, but I’m not gonna lie to him. I don’t like him, and I sure as helldon’t trust him.”

“Come on, man,” Sam grunts, his eyebrows plastered together disapprovingly. “He’s been through a lot—you don’t have a sympathetic bone in your body, do you?”

     A few things happened at once, which honestly would have confused James if he didn’t know Sam a fair amount. First, seeing Sam seamlessly switch sides between him and Tony was disorienting; he supposed Sam’s loyalty had always lied with Steve, and ergo him—but Sam had lived here, in the tower with Stark and the others, for well over a year now.

Natasha’s eyes finally peeled away from Tony, and landed on Sam, her expression clearly saying what her lips wouldn’t: _‘You shouldn’t have said that’_

     Simultaneously, with his eyes still trained on Stark, Bucky sees his demeanor change. It’s almost scarily fluid, as if ice had literally begun to cover his body, Tony’s posture straightened, his eyes narrowed, and he took a few long, smooth steps towards James.

“Let me make myself _painfully_ clear, Sergeant Barnes.” Stark says, voice icy and strained. Although he was significantly shorter than him, James felt the sudden urge to step back and ball his fists. “I don’t care what happens to you. At all.”

“Tony—” Steve interjects, but Buck lifts his hand lightly, calling him off.

Tony looks at James’ hand and scoffs, eyes darting between the two men, “I don’t want you here. I never wanted to see your _fucking_ face again. So when you’re done here, you’ll crawl into whatever hole they dragged you out of. You’re bait. Don’t—even for a second—think I won’t offer you up to HYDRA on a silver _plate_ if it gets Barton and the kid back.”

    ' _Barton and the kid.'_   It was a rescue mission. James's head was spinning, but he shoots a glance at Steve, whose lips flatten into a straight unyielding line.  _Why didn't they tell him?_  Tony was inches away from Bucky now, his eyes dark, the lines of his face firm—he was in a rough spot, and Bucky could tell. These people--or rather whoever the kid was since Bucky was pretty certain Tony wasn't really worried about Barton— clearly meant a lot to Stark. In fact, he meant so much that he made Tony Stark face the one man he wanted nothing more than to see dead, and ask him for a favor. The grip on Bucky’s forearm was tighter now, as Steve prepared to intervene if either man attacked.

He dug down, past the image he saw of a bloodied Howard instead of an angry Tony, and sought the mechanics buried somewhere inside him to respond. Once he found it, he unconsciously straightened his spine, and clearly spoke the word, “Understood.”

Tony stood, still inches away, and glared at James’s sudden shift, a glint of interest in his eyes, before wordlessly stalking away and out of the room.

The awkward silence he left behind seemed to last forever. 

 

 


	5. fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little angst, for you readers, lol. Steve and Bucky argue a little. if you're just here for the sexy stuff, I promise the porn will be back soon! 
> 
> I'm going to be changing the format a little here, not the story, just the writing style. I'm not liking the way the paragraph indents look when finished, lol. sorry if that bothers any of you! xx

“Steve, I—I don’t know if this is such a good idea.” Buck says quietly, as they make their way further into Steve's apartment. 

It's huge, but then again, so is everything of Stark’s.

“Relax, we don’t have to share a bed, Buck, there’s a guest room right around the corner—”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky says, unable to bring himself further into the living space. It was so oddly _Steve_ , the simple homey furniture, the layout and textiles—the place looked like Steve regurgitated an apartment from the 40’s into 21st century appropriate decor.

 Steve stalled. “Did you want to take a look at the apartment Pepper prepared for you? I guess I should have taken you there first—”

"No,” Buck says a little more firmly. “I mean…  _here_ … in the tower. With the rest of you.”

Steve just looks at him, confusion staining his face.

“I-I don’t think I fit here. You all clearly have a dynamic going for yourselves. You…you trust one another.” Buck says carefully. “I don’t think anyone here will ever be able to fully trust me…and I don’t think they should, either.”

“Bucky, Vision and Wanda looked for you for _weeks_. Sam has been looking for you since he got out—Natasha tore me to shreds every time someone mentioned your name, because she knew you belong here, with the rest of us.”

“And Stark?”

Steve’s face falls slightly. _Damn it._ “Tony just needs a little time—and with you _here_ he can keep an eye on you until he warms up to you.”

“I killed his parents, Steve.” Buck says quietly, staring at the marble detail on the floor. It was in the shape of Steve’s shield, red and white marble and quartz by the looks of it. “He should have killed me the second I popped back up on his radar.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. He didn't know what to say to that.

"You don't really think you're responsible for that night, do you?" Steve asks, quietly.

He observes Bucky, lingering on his forlorn expression. There's disappointment laced into his features, his beautiful gray eyes looking dejected and unfocused. He almost seems to be biting back and stopping himself short of saying something.

He glances up, and the look on his face makes Steve wince. "Who else could possibly be responsible, Steve?"

"H.Y _—_ " Steve makes to respond, to console, but Bucky cuts him off.

"I was there-I did those things, and I  _remember_ it." James says, his voice growing angrier. "How am I supposed to look at Stark and not hate everything about this?"

Once again, Steve is left robbed of thought. He wants desperately to say something _—_ anything _—_ to calm Bucky down, but he can't think of anything that wouldn't just upset him further. Just as Bucky does, he understands the resentment Tony feels, but it doesn't stop him from wishing his friend would know that it wasn't his fault. 

Unable to form words, he just steps closer to the other man. At this angle Steve could see dampness clinging to Buck's lower eyelashes, the skin there pinking up with the coming tears.  _God_ , Steve thought, _he was so perfect_. He'd spent decades a prisoner in his own body and he wasn't angry _,_ he was remorseful. Maybe it makes Steve a sociopath or something equally convoluted, but he doesn't think he would react as wholesomely as Bucky has.

Between being used all those years by H.Y.D.R.A. and then imprisoned by his best friend and only ally, Steve would have probably lost his shit at this point.

But here he is, his better half, with his lips pressed tightly together in thought, worried about other people.

Steve couldn't stop himself from snaking his arms around Bucky's shoulders, engulfing him in a tight embrace. He feels him slowly respond, settling his face in the crook of Steve's neck and grasping at his back. Steve slowly laces his fingers in Buck's hair, sliding the tips of them along his scalp in a soothing caress. They stood there for a moment, Steve savoring the short moment when Bucky finally lets himself be comforted.

He was always like that _—_ too strong to admit it whenever he was hurting. Even now, he hadn't specifically said that he needed to be held, but Steve knew. 

Steve always knew.

He remembers slowly that Buck still doesn't have access to all of his memories yet, so none of this was familiar to him. It was familiar to Steve though, who could honestly live pressed against James Barnes' body if it meant the soldier didn't have to hate himself so much. He'd stand here for as long as it took the other man to realize that he was  _fucking_   _perfect_ , and that he always had been.

Bucky begins to separate them, and Steve gives him a little space, not yet untwining their arms. He rests his forehead against Steve's and sets his metal hand against Steve's cheek, rubbing his jaw with his thumb.

He still doesn't speak, but Steve felt everything he was saying. It was a small, wordless ' _thank you'_ , and Steve hoards the touch like it's gold. 

At first, Steve doesn't mean anything by it, but when he skims his lips against James', the sensation overwhelms him, and he kisses him a little harder. Bucky responds by sliding his hand through the short hairs at the nape of Steve's neck, and kissing back, darting his tongue out to taste him. Heat builds between them, and the kiss grows more passionate _—_ just a little wild _—_ the sounds of their mouths filling the room. 

Without warning, Bucky pulls away, and after a breath, shakes his head. "No, no I can't."

"Can't what?" Steve rasps back, hands still in the other man's hair. He didn't notice his erection, but he did notice the soft flush to Bucky's cheeks and lips. He wants nothing more than to hold the him close, but Bucky's arms are locked on Steve's forearms, holding him an arm's-length away. 

"I can't do this with you." James says, pulling himself away a little more. The distance almost burns Steve's skin. 

It's panic that hits him now and as Steve racks his brain for what to say next, it's James who speaks again.

"This isn't a good idea. I shouldn't even be here, much less be here with you." J ames says, closing his eyes tightly. Steve would typically be concerned that he was hurting himself, but instead, he's trying to control his temper.

“You’re serious?” Steve asks, the panic settling deep in his bones. His world was shaking, falling apart, unravelling right in front of him. He feels a sliver of white hot anger slip out and up his throat, coming out as, “You aren’t fucking serious?”

Bucky’s eyes shift at his sudden change, and he manages, “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”

Steve pulls away, and swipes the back of his hand against his brow. He doesn’t want to push Bucky away, but if he won’t open up to him, what else could he do? He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t—_ watch the most important thing in his life reject him. The mere idea of it stings his chest. He focuses his his eyes on the floor, at James feet, trying in vain to hide his storm of emotion.

Bucky drops his hands from Steve's arms, and he immediately feels the loss. James narrows his eyes and says, "I can't do that kind of shit here, in Stark's home, Steve."

Steve glares at him, but his face soften when he realizes James was talking about them being intimate.

He begins to explain that that isn't what he meant — that he just wanted to hold him —but Bucky interrupts him. " If you're going to fucking pout every-time you can't just use me, then I don't think we should keep doing this. For fuck's sake, I'm tired of being used."

Steve could take a lot of things, but that? That cut like a knife. 

What felt like a gushing wound in his chest was quickly replaced with a surge of anger. The words came out hastily and angrily,  "So I'm just using you then? That's what you think?"

"That's sure what it seems like. Tony made himself clear — I'm just here to get your people back, right? No, I get it! Get a few good lays in while you're stuck with me, right?" Bucky says, something uncharacteristically calm in his tone, yet somehow still angry. 

"Fuck you." Steve yells, and uses both hands to shove at James chest. Caught off guard, Bucky slides backwards a few feet, landing on his ass.

It should be impossible to get up after being thrown down onto the floor and still look menacing, but James manages to do just that. With one swipe of his metal hand, he pushes his hair back and grunts.

"I get your people back, and then I'm out. No safe house, no lock-up, nothing." He says, voice smooth and solid. " _Nothing_. You let me go. That's how this ends." 

Steve doesn't respond, because part of him wants to yell, to tell him he's a jackass and that he loves him. Another part of him wants to hold him tight and tell him he isn't going anywhere because he loves him. But he doesn't speak, because when it comes to James Barnes, he'll never have the heart to hurt him.

So he just watches his shadow disappear down the hall way, towards the guest room. 

 


	6. daniel...or david.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Natasha bond, and Steve catches a fit.

Bucky woke up the following morning in a fright.

He hadn't expected to fall asleep. He didn't even remember drifting off.

Oddly enough, the fear didn't last very long. There was an air of comfort in his room, a large part of it simply because he knew Steve was somewhere on the same floor.

He lazily swipes his feet over the edge of the bed, and stalks over to the en suite. He rests both his hands on the countertop, but when it creaks under his full weight, he sighs and leans back. His reflection matched how he felt inside, sleepily groggy and just a little angry. With a little shake of his head, he shifts all of his hair back, so he can clearly address his face.

He notices that his lips seem redder than he’d expected, and his mind flashes back to the cause: kissing Steve the night before. Tepid anger stings his chest, but he pushes it down, and continues to regard his looks. His eyes lacked the bags he’d grown accustomed too, the result of sleeping well for the last few days. His jaw sports a healthy amount of hair, growing in slowly since he’d last shaved. He didn’t like his appearance—it seemed too sloppy and unkempt—but he hadn’t _felt_ this much in a while.

Even if it was disgust, or disappointment —whatever this was — it felt nice to look in the mirror _feel_ something.

No matter how he looks at his, this new-found ability to feel began with Steve. James bites back the urge to go and find him, and continues to get dressed. Half-way through buttoning his jeans, a solid knock lands on his door, and it creaks open.

Standing in the doorframe is Natasha, deftly holding two coffee mugs in her left hand. 

“Good morning,” She says quietly, and stalks into the room. Her eyes linger on James’ face for a moment, before sliding down his torso. It’s only then that he remembers he’s only half dressed.

“G’morning.” He says gravelly. With one fell swoop, he slips the shirt over his head and onto his body. 

She blinks slowly, and returns her eyes to his face. “Brought you some coffee. Then we can train.”

“Train?” he asks, hesitantly taking the mug from the redhead. 

“Yeah, in the bulletproof box they built for your boyfriend to toss his shield around without breaking anything.” She says smoothly, settling down at the foot of his bed.

James’ mind lingered on the title she’d sarcastically given Steve—at least he assumed it was sarcasm, it was so hard to tell when Natasha was yanking your chain. Even now as she’s sitting on the edge of his bed, a typically friendly gesture, is conflicted by her straight, stiff posture and deadpan expression. 

“Oh,” He murmurs, and gingerly takes a sip from the mug. 

“Honey, you can drink it, it’s not spiked.” she tuts, taking a sip from hers. 

He would blush, but for some reason he doesn’t think he’s capable of doing that anymore.

“No, I just want to see if you’re faster than Steve.” her eyebrow arches in interest. “Or stronger.” 

“What, is there some sort of bet going on?” He asks, still sipping his coffee. It was good; he hadn’t tasted coffee in _forever_.

“Yes,” she smiles genuinely. “Rhodes and Wilson put their money on Steve, the ever loyal bastards, but Banner, Vision and I know it’s got to be you, hands down.”

A laugh slips through his lips before he could catch or stifle it. 

 

***

 

The day was long, but James returned to his room feeling better than he had in a long time.

Natasha had taken him to the training wing, located a few floors above Steve’s. It was filled with assorted training items, and had a small section devoted to each of the Avenger’s training styles.

One section was filled with an unbelievable knife collection, which James immediately knew was Natasha’s. Immediately to that sections left was a wall of different bows and arrows, which he figures is Clint’s. There was a section of the wall where one of Spiderman’s suits was on display, and a bare mannequin beside it where the suit he was captured in seemingly belongs. 

To the end of that hallway are two doors, one of which said ‘shooting range’ and the other ‘contained practice space’. The latter is the space devoted to Steve, and Banner’s green counterpart, the Hulk. In there the space is specifically designed to be indestructible, everything made of vibranium—which Bucky learns is the strongest metal on Earth, and is what Vision wants to test to see if his arm is made of—and reinforced glass. 

Evidently, Bucky is faster than Steve, running a mile almost twice as quickly as the captain, and has a better capacity for hand to hand combat. Steve still has him beat when it comes to brute force, though. The captain was able to stop a car coming at him at full speed _without his shield._ James didn’t even want _to try_ to beat that claim.

Natasha had him train alongside her, telling him to pick his weapons carefully. He settled on two small knives and a pistol, as he was not exactly sure what all the other contraptions on wall did. The two fought unbelievably well together, running through Stark’s combat hologram twice as efficiently as anyone had before.

Impressed with his skill, it was Vision who suggested he go up against Natasha herself, a little friendly competition. He begrudgingly agreed to it when he saw the competitive smile creep up on her face. He’d been taught—or programmed, rather—to plot strategically and fight aggressively, but Natasha fought light on her feet and let her body just guide the weapons where they needed to go. 

She’d managed to get a little metal patch against his neck, which delivered a little shock, presumably a lot less than would have been administered to a real foe. It slowed his movements a little, but a scrape of his knife was all it took to send it clattering to the floor. The training gun shot blanks but sent little holographic markers to where the bullet would have landed. He missed two shots, and resorted to his knives.

She was able to get a few good jabs of her knife in, slicing through his shirt twice, but the fight effectively ended when he instinctively maneuvered a strike too quickly, and nicked her cheek. Natasha insisted she was fine, and that they should continue, but James was adamant. One of them would get hurt, and he couldn’t bear the thought.

The others teased him mercilessly, but it took it, knowing it was all in good fun. They fed him a good hearty meal and Natasha walked him back to Steve’s floor. 

It bothered him slightly that Steve wasn’t there when he got back, as he hadn’t seen him all day, but he realized that he was probably being silly, and went to his room.

He washed up, tended to his nicks and bruises, and got dressed for bed. It was already midnight, and there was no sign of Steve. Although he lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he listens closely for the slightest shift in sound. He could hear people on the floor above him—Sam’s apartment—but nothing from the rest of Steve’s floor. 

Slowly, he snakes his arm around one of the pillows and frowns. He couldn’t help but be worried.

 

***

 

It wasn’t hard to get someone to come home with you when you look like Steve Rogers. Steve was pretty sure the kid—he didn't remember his name—probably thought that Steve didn't care if anyone saw them together, but he was wrong—well, at least in part. Steve didn’t care if anyone else saw them, but he needed James to see them. Something mean was stirring around in his gut, bubbling up in excitement at the prospect of making James feel jealous. 

When Steve got dressed this morning, he caught a glimpse of James heading out the front door with Natasha. She'd yelled something about them going to train, and the pair left. He hadn't seen either of them again all day. Their absence left an uneasy feeling with Steve; he knew part of it was jealousy, but the rest was just an eerie discomfort. He can't explain it, but it makes him scared and flustered, especially when it's paired with the fact that James evidently isn't speaking to him.

Maybe if he saw Steve sleeping with someone else, he’d get jealous, angry, or something, and would come back to him. He hadn’t though too deeply into that plan, but he was jealous and angry, and it's clouding his judgement. He wanted James to feel the way he felt, used, abandoned, but somehow not used enough.

The other man's hands roam Steve’s body, hungrily taking in every inch of the super soldier’s enhanced features. They were in the lobby of the Avenger's Tower, and Steve honestly considered dropping his pants right there and letting the kid go to town. Maybe someone would see them—they wouldn’t say anything, because who wants to question Captain America’s actions in the Avengers Tower?

But James wouldn’t see them if they had sex here—no, he needed to get up to his apartment.

They kiss feverishly in the elevator, but on the slow climb upward,Steve realizes that it isn't doing much to arouse him. The door dings gently, and Steve pulls away from their embrace and starts out of the space, the dark-haired man following close behind.

It's roughly three in the morning, and the odds of James being up and around are slim, so he’d have to settle for making this poor kid scream his name— _that_ would wake him up.

They stopped in the kitchen, re-attaching to each-other where they’d left off. It was purely calculated, but the kid couldn’t possibly know that. The kitchen is a wide open space, where their voices would carry to the rest of the floor most easily. He wanted Bucky to hear every moan, every scream, every filthy little gasp.

“Fuck me already?” The man pulls away and asks, a statement that should have probably been demanded rather than asked.

Steve didn’t hesitate, he yanked him up onto the countertop and started stripping him. He was exceptionally handsome, Steve thought. If he wasn’t going to actually enjoy fucking him, at least he could acknowledge the kid’s good looks. He—was it David? Steve was fairly certain his name starts with a D—had wavy dark brown hair and thick long lashes that, dare he say it, suddenly reminds him of Bucky back in the 40s. It stung, realizing that he had unconsciously picked up a man who even fucking  _looks_  like Bucky.

But that didn’t matter, because Bucky or not, when that kid's hand wraps around his cock and he whimpers at the size, Steve is gone. It could only be described as ravenous, his hands raking over Daniel’s body. He barely had time to tear open a packet of lube and slather himself with it before Steve was lining up and sinking in.He cried out, and tried to hush himself by biting his lip, but Steve promptly used his thumb to pull it out with a soft,  _‘no, scream for me,’_

It was subtle, but Steve caught it. The yell had indeed woken James up, because slowly—God, so slowly— James slipped out of the guest bedroom he’s been occupying, into the large open living room. It took Bucky a second; he stood there with his eyebrows knitted up in confusion, eyes narrowed at Steve still pumping in and out of Dylan with quick short pumps.

Steve thought he would get angry—or maybe just upset enough to head back into his room—but he doesn't. Instead, he soundlessly stalks closer, a hint of a smirk in his eyes. He stops short, sinking down onto the couch. Slowly, he spread his legs and sent his metal hand into his shorts.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs to himself, which caused David to wrap his legs around Steve’s hips.

James’ eyes were trained on the couple in the kitchen, fucking mercilessly on the counter. His hand slowly stroked up and down, his eyes still groggy with that foggy tired look.He sent his tongue out to wet his lip, and looked up lazily at the pair.

Steve bit his own lip, eyes fixed on Buck. He watches as the soldier slips his fingers lower in his underwear, and starts circling his hole. The sight made Steve's rhythm slow and his jaw drop open, a hasty grunt slipping out. That was it—that would be his new fantasy: James masturbating, fondling his balls and ass with his metal hand.

“What? What is it?” Steve is reminded of the younger man beneath him when he shifts and tries for some friction against his hips.

“Nothing, baby.” Steve murmurs, knotting his hand in the kids hair and regaining his rhythm. His eyes are still drinking in James’ solo session. “How’s that feel?”

Dylan murmurs something, but Steve only notices Buck mouth _‘so good’_ before propping his left leg up on the sofa to better touch himself. 

“Oh, I’m gonna come,” David whimpers against Steve’s neck, and sure enough, that’s exactly what he did.

Steve would probably find it hot that he managed to climax without even having his cock touched if James wasn’t still a few feet away, sliding his finger in and out of his body at an agonizingly slow pace.

“What is it—” David whispers, attempting to turn and follow Steve’s distracted gaze, but Steve grabs his jaw and kisses him before he can see Bucky. 

When he breaks the kiss expecting James to have left, he groans at the sight of him still on the couch with his head thrown back, probably with more than one finger in himself.

“You didn’t—” Dylan mumbles, referring to Steve’s raging hard-on in between their hips.

“No, it’s okay.” Steve grumbles, throwing his shirt back on. David takes the hint and starts dressing hastily as well. “It happens sometimes—you know the super soldier shit—sometimes I just can’t, you know? Don’t worry about it.”

He barely has on his pants when Steve shuffles him out of the front door and towards the elevator. 

“Sorry, I’ll have a cab for you out front, okay?” Steve blushes furiously, watching the other man’s face grow angry. “I’m sorry—sorry.”

From back inside the apartment, Steve hears Bucky moan.

 “What the hell was that?” Steve raises his voice once Dylan was safely inside the elevator.

“Captain Rogers kicking a babe out after making love—that doesn’t sound like you, Stevie.”Buck drawls, still draped lazily across the couch.

“Yeah, I didn’t want him noticing that there was someone sitting a couple feet away jacking off to him.” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

Buck’s jaw slackens, and he shifts himself to look up at Steve. “I definitely wasn’t looking at him, Sunshine.”

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, so he clears it, but still doesn’t find the words he needs to reply. Dylan wasn’t able to make him come—an unfortunate consequence of having James sitting so close but not being able to touch him—so his erection is straining against his pants.

“Fuck you.” Steve murmurs, and starts towards the kitchen.

“Well when you ask nicely, like that,” Buck coos, sliding his legs open.

Steve is staring now. The thick careful curve of Bucky’s muscled thigh makes his dick twitch, and the brunet’s erection flopped over carelessly on his thigh makes his mouth water.

“Is that what you want, Steve?” Buck asks lazily, “Is that why you brought that pretty boy up here?”

Steve swallows.

“If you wanted to fuck me, all you had to do was ask, Babydoll.” He slips his metal hand down and cups his erection,  lazily running his hand over it side-to-side.

“James,”

“What?” He’s still peering through slack eyes, voice smooth as velvet, so calm and collected it almost bothers Steve, because he's jittery mess at the moment. “Tell me I’m wrong, that you didn’t fuck that kid just to try to get to me, and I’ll apologize, and you’ll never have to deal with me or my bullshit again.

The prospect of ‘never having to deal with him’ again makes Steve swallow and admit, “I did. I did do it to upset you.”

“You don’t have to do anything besides ask for me, Stevie.” Buck purrs, all the while still stroking himself. 

Steve nods, and unknowingly moves closer to him. Buck lifts himself gently to meet Steve, slipping his hand in the blonde’s hair. Their lips meet, and a filthy moan escapes Steve’s lips.

Their dynamic was different tonight, but not in a bad way. No, it felt good, Steve thought. Normally James was in control—which Steve begrudgingly realizes that  _he probably still is_ — guiding his body where it needed to go, taking the lead. Tonight, Steve was physically in control, hands in Buck’s hair, leading their kiss deeper, until Buck was making filthy little sounds in the back of this throat.

“Take my pants off,” Steve murmurs against Buck’s lips, and the brunet obliges, tearing away from their kiss for the few seconds it took for him to undo the button and fly, and slip them down Steve’s legs.

Buck kisses himfor just a moment more, before sinking to his knees in front of the captain.Wordlessly, and with only a look of extreme concentration, Buck kisses his way across Steve’s hip, and slides his boxers down to his ankles.

“Fuck, Stevie.” Buck whimpers— _whimpers_. James Barnes _whimpering_. How Steve managed to stay collected was a miracle.

And just like that, he began to disappear in James’ mouth. Hot, wet, messy sounds came from the soldier on his knees, and Steve couldn’t help his moaning. God, how was he supposed to hold out if he kept up those filthy little cries—and those rough little gags?

After a moment of sucking, James pulls back. A line of spit formed between his lower lip and Steve’s cock, which he cut with his tongue. He spits on Steve’s cock again, making Steve throw his head back, and grit his teeth as not to lose his load right then and there. He has his metal hand at the base of Steve’s cock, the other circling the tip.

“Hold my hair?” Bucky asks, and Steve quickly scrambles to gather it all at the back of his head.

Buck licks his lips and slowly slides them over Steve’s cock again, and stills, waiting for Steve to start stroking. Steve was seeing stars now—because he was leaking pre-come down James’ throat—and slowly starts moving his hips back and forth.

“ _fwuck_ —” Bucky whines around Steve’s cock in his mouth. Steve looks down for any sign that he was in discomfort, but the brunets eyes are totally fucked, pupils blown, expression slack and content. To prove it, he swallows, forcing Steve further in his throat, and manages to stick his tongue all the way out.

“Fuck, yes,” Steve groans, “You look so fucking hot, Bucky—ah—It feels so good.”

Steve pulls his hips back all the way until he slips out of Bucky’s mouth, and the brunet stayed completely still, tongue still out, waiting for his return.

That was enough, because Steve suddenly remembered that James had been teasing his hole while watching him and Dylan.

He wraps his hand around Bucky’s throat—gently, as only Steve Rogers could manage to do— and pushes him onto the couch. With his hand still on Buck’s throat, he yanks down his boxers, exposing Buck to him. He swiped his fingers over his tongue, and reaches them down to prod his hole.

Bucky makes a little noise, but Steve continues, able to work one finger in easily. Slowly, he slipped another in.

“Fuck,” Bucky moans, and fists the couch cushion. “Stevie, that feels good.”

“Yeah?” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to Buck’s hipbone. “You want another one?”

Buck nods, and Steve obliges, working another thick finger into his body. He lets his other hand roam to Buck’s nipples, running his thumb over the peak.

Buck takes a sharp breath in, and Steve stills his fingers and looks up, thinking three might just have been too ambitious. James is turning red with embarrassment, and when Steve runs his finger over his nipple again, he knows why. Just the slight action made Buck’s whole dick twitch. It was almost funny, how Buck could shamelessly take the entirety of Steve’s cock down his throat and not bat an eye, but blushed beet red when he gets his nipples grazed.

“Oh yeah?” Steve says expectantly, reaching his free hand back up to Buck’s throat, and grasping it lightly.

Slowly, he moves himself up and plants his lips down around the perky nipple. A garbled mess of sounds comes out of Bucky’s throat, but no protests.

“Stevie,” Buck manages weakly, after a moments assault on his nipples, “Fuck me, put it in me.”

Steve stumbles over his own limbs, trying to get himself lined up with James as quickly as super-humanely possible. He slips himself in slowly, gaining a soft moan from Bucky when he relaxes just enough to take the tip of Steve’s cock.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Steve,” Bucky moans, clutching the couch cushions. 

Steve couldn’t speak, he was too busy concentrating every inch of his will into not climaxing. James was so _tight_ , and so _warm_ that he was gritting his teeth so hard he could hear his pulse thudding. Slowly, his hips started moving back and forth, and Bucky’s breathing sped up because each stroke grazes his prostate. 

Steve reaches down and grasps Bucky’s cock, spreading the thick slick all over the head before jerking it in pace with his hips. 

Consequently, it was Bucky who came first, clamping down around Steve as he spurted allover his torso and Steve’s hand. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body shook with with pleasure He watches Steve lick up his stomach up to his chest before suckling on his nipple again. This sent him headfirst into another orgasm, _immediately_ after the first one. It’s so intense that when he moans this time his voice breaks off.

Steve came as well, overwhelmed by the faces and sounds Bucky was making under him. He wasn’t wearing a condom either so he felt his come hot and sticky around his cock buried deep in Bucky. 

Steve slumps down against Bucky’s body, and catches his breath. Bucky is completely fucked out, his eyes barely open. 

Sex never tired them out like this when they did it separately. Maybe their short refractory periods cancelled out since it they were both super solider’s giving it their all, but neither man has the energy to stay awake. They share a slow kiss in lieuof words, which said everything they wanted to:  _I missed you_. 

Once they knew the other was okay, they couldn't keep their eyes open any longer, and fell asleep pressed against each other on a couch,  _again_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter & I promise the plot will return, lol! It's going to pick up real soon, I promise! xx.


	7. deja vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been missing for a hot second, but wow like 300 views? Thanks y'all! xx.

Steve woke up the following morning in his guest room.

His first instinct was to reach out and grope the sheets around him in search of James, but all he felt was the cool touch of cotton against his fingertips.Slowly, he let his eyes flutter open, and as light flooded him, so did sound. The shower in the bathroom is on, James presumably inside. 

Steve stretches his limbs and slides off of the bed, barely awake but still padding into the en suite. A wave of thick, humid heat hits him, and the sound of the shower is much louder. Sure enough, he can see James’ silhouette though the fogged up glass: The lean figure shifts behind the steam, tilting his head back to allow the water to run through his hair. 

In a few long strides, Steve was at the door, sliding it open.

James didn’t even flinch, he just gazes back at him through slitted eyes. He doesn’t say anything, only moving slightly to make room for Steve. 

He could stare at Bucky forever—especially when he’s like this. His hair is slick and shiny against his head, trailing down his lean neck and settled in the middle of his broad shoulders. His metal shoulder clinks gently as it dips under the spray of the shower head. Patches of red appear on his skin where the hot water draws his blood to the surface. A hint of unnecessary jealousy tinges in Steve, who wanted unbelievably badly to be the one leaving marks on Buck’s skin. 

So he does just that, dipping his head forward to kiss Bucky’s shoulder. The soldier stills, tense at first, but then relaxes into it. Before he knows it, his hands are wrapped around Buck’s chest, holding his back flush against Steve’s chest. 

“I missed you.” Steve murmurs into Buck’s hair. 

“Mhm.” Bucky whispers back, kissing Steve’s knuckle. “I missed you too, punk.” 

“I missed you.” Steve repeats softly, kissing his neck. It was more forceful this time, hard enough to solicit a soft sound from Bucky’s lips.

“I know,” He replies, a little bitterness in his tone “but just so you know, fucking some random kid isn’t _exactly_ how you should show that.”

A smile stretches across Steve’s lips, and Bucky feels it against his shoulder. “I know. Could you really blame me? Kid looked just like you.” 

They share a short laugh, and what seems like a lifetime of kisses, before Bucky finally grounds them from their high. 

“Natasha is waiting for me.” He whispers, leaning against Steve. “I promised her a rematch.” 

There it is again—that jealousy. It stings deep in Steve’s gut, making him woozy. Natasha. She was suddenly very interested in James, wasn’t she?

“Steve?” Bucky asks, snapping his attention back to the conversation.

“Yeah,” Steve forces a smile, “You go ahead then.” 

With a squeeze of his hair and a little pat down of his body, Bucky was out of the shower, leaving Steve to have one of his own. He saw him stand at the mirror for a moment, wrap his towel around his waist, and disappear into his bedroom. A few minutes later, he hears the door to the hallway open and shut, and then the front door do the same.

 

***

 

Sam was the next person he saw for the day. He’d knocked politely on Steve’s door, only to come barreling in a few seconds later.

“I’ve got to show you something,” He huffed, like he’d ran all the way here. “Something good.”

“What is it?” Steve asks, setting down his coffee and making his way over to him.

“I’ve got a few buddies over in East Harlem who think they’ve got a match on our guy,” Sam says, handing him a tablet. 

On left of the screen is the suspect’s picture, the one Tony retrieved from Peter’s suit’s AI, just before he was captured. On the right was another photo, of the same man, dressed differently, and a hell of a lot more distracted. The photo was taken covertly from a good distance away. The man was looking over his shoulder with wild, paranoid eyes, almost as if he was checking his six and yet somehow still blind to Wilson’s people photographing him. 

“What’s F.R.I.D.A.Y. say? Is it a match?” Steve asks, looking at the other man.

Before Sam could speak, the AI interrupts. “I can confirm with 94 percent accuracy that the man in Wilson’s photo is the assailant that captured Mr. Parker.” 

Guilt stings weighs heavy in his chest, but he grits his teeth and looks down. Clearing his throat, he manages, “Your men, they know where he is?” 

Sam nods. “I’ve got a team trailing him.” 

Steve lets his eyes trail over Sam’s frame, as he solemnly wonders what he’d done to deserve such a loyal friend. He was still huffing a little, winded from running all the way here.

He claps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, studying his deep brown eyes. “Good. I’ll take this to Stark.”

 

***

 

Steve did come into the lab with good intentions—he really did—but Stark going _five minutes_ without being an jackass is quite literally impossible. 

The air in the large laboratory was unnaturally thick, tension floating around them like fog. Bruce was standing off to the side, fiddling with something metal in his hands. The only sound in the room now was the tiny metallic clinks coming from him, although he was completely oblivious to the rising tensions. 

Tony scoffs, his voice dry. His eyes are red, with little purplish bruises under them, undoubtedly from not sleeping enough. “So you’ve come all the way down here to tell me that Wilson has a hunch?”

As he spoke, Steve smells it—booze. It’s thick on his lips, almost slurring his words slightly. As much anger as he has for him right now, Steve can’t help but feel a little concern. 

“No, I came to tell you that Sam found him.” Steve says carefully. He’s seen Tony drunk before, on _many_ occasions, and Drunk Tony is always Unpredictable Tony. “I’m asking you to sit down with me; lets figure out a game plan to get Peter and Clint back.” 

Tony stares down at the piece of machinery in his hand, still fiddling with it. Steve has seen it before, it’s some sort of battery for Tony’s suit. 

“Tony?” Steve asks quietly.

“What?” Tony snaps, “Did you come _want_ me to spazz out on you, Sparkles? Fuck off.” 

With that, Banner finally looks up from his tinkering. He doesn’t say anything, he just takes a look at the arguing pair. 

Before Steve could stop himself, he shouts, “What the hell, Stark? Did you hear anything I just said? Or are you still drunk?”

Tony blinks and leans up from his work, before pelting it straight at Steve’s face. Steve, of course, deflects the battery, sending it clattering to the floor. He watches the pieces scatter on the floor, and grumbles to himself about starting over. 

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Steve whispers, leaning closer to the other man. His dark eyebrows are knitted together, as he looks down at his hands.

Banner is suddenly beside them, his arm on Steve’s wrist, calling him off. “No,” he warns. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, drawing the word out. “Maybe I’m a little buzzed, _Captain_. That’s what it takes for me to put up with this _shit-show_ of a world we’re all living in.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, he just searches Tony’s face for a clue as to what he meant by that.

“In what kinda world does that happen? We were all there— why Peter? That’s on me, Steve, and everyone’s acting like shit’s fine around here.” Tony spits, “It’s all fucked—we’re all _fucked—_ and your little boyfriend isn’t exactly helping.” 

“Hey—” Steve barks, instinctively lurching forward in Bucky’s defense. Fortunately Banner’s hand is still firmly fastened on his arm, holding him still.He breathes for a moment, calming himself. “You know it wasn’t him—it wasn’t _Bucky_ who did those things—Tony, the guilt is literally killing him.” 

“And let me guess?” Tony stiffens, “I’m not making it easy for him am I? “Well, just fuck me, then, huh?”

A little sigh escapes Stark’s lips, and his eyes settle on the desk below him. His hand reaches out to trace over the unfurled blueprint, and he presses his eyes shut. None of the three men spot Natasha at the door, which evidently is one of the redhead’s skills. Unfortunately, they didn’t see James, who was behind her, either. 

Steve starts, “Tony—”

Tony quickly interrupts him. “Y’know what—just fuck off, Steve. Chase Wilson’s hunch if you fucking feel like it; I won’t get my hopes up just to be disappointed again.” 

 

***

 

Natasha settles in beside him, loading the handguns and replacing their safety pins.Neither of them speak, they just fall into a comfortable, quiet rhythm. _Load. Cock the top back. Check the chamber. Replace the pin. Set it down._ Steve was probably still arguing with Stark, which James decided was a lost cause. Stark would never forgive him—and he reserved every right not to— and Steve would never stop defending him, no matter how much he begged him to. It was comforting to have someone with unfaltering dedication, someone who would follow him to the ends of the earth. _Someone who was with him until the end of the line_. 

He didn’t know where he’d heard that before, but it fit. It was probablySteve—it sounded like him. 

“What’ve you got knocking around up there, Barnes?” Natasha asks, not removing her eyes from the weapon in her hands. 

He’s quiet for a moment, but then says, “…Steve.” Then he quickly remembers that unlike the other Avengers, who were free to make their assumptions about his and the Captain’s relationship, Natasha had seen it firsthand. He clears his throat, then adds, “I don’t know if I’m worth all this fighting. I think Steve may be letting me cloud his judgement.”

“He is.” Natasha says, bluntly. 

Her honesty cut in an all-too-familiar way. Buck lifted his gaze and let it settle on her. She was tiny—very tiny—a little doll of a person compared to himself, but the skin-tight black suit and the P1911 in her tiny hands gave her a deadly aura. Her hair was cropped at her shoulders, a rusty, faded red, with streaks of strawberry blonde at the roots. Suddenly, having expected and not received his response, she looked up. Buck wasn’t sure what color he’d expected her eyes to be this close; but the emerald irises that gazed up at him held expectation for just a fraction of a second,but quickly rescinded all emotion, looking completely and utterly blank. 

Something in him forced him to look away, wiping his face of all perceivable emotions as well. It felt odd, just how connected he felt to her. He felt close enough to admit he thought Steve was making a mistake—something he immediately regretted—and couldn’t help but feel as though the secret would die with the redhead. 

It took him a moment to realize that she was still staring. Until she spoke, he hadn’t looked up, but when he did, he felt his chest constrict— _he was missing something, what was he missing?_

“You don’t remember do you?” She says, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if she were searching James’ face for any sign he remembered. _Remember what?_

“I don’t remember anything, really.” He mumbles, looking away again, _down,_ down at his hands as they wrap around another handgun. _Load. Cock the top back. Check the—_

Her hand shot out and took the gun from him, setting it down with a little thud. When James let his eyes wander back up, he almost wished she hadn’t. He’d never seen her upset—not angry, but _disappointed_ —but if she were capable of emoting, this is probably what it would look like. Her eyebrows dipped together in the center, leaving a little knot in her forehead. Her lips pressed together in a thin line.

The Russian words seemed to scratch her throat when they came out, and the very instant James heard the distinctive accent, he shot back a step. “Запомнить? ( _Remember_?)” she whispers, still holding his wrist.

“No, no-no-no.” he says, trying to step back, but she mirrored his action, still close enough to hold his wrist. 

“ _Alexei,_ ” She says quietly. Her voice is calm—she isn’t trying to hurt him—just barely above a whisper.

It hit him rather quickly—memories, he realized— but it came in little blotches. Just the wisp of an idea: Natasha—no, _Natalia_ is what they called her—but she’s young, _small_. No more than fifteen, but she was holding an sniper rifle the length of her small body. Then again Natalia, a little bit older, but not by much. Her skin was pale and covered in bruises, her hair matted and dirty and he didn’t know how, but he knew they had hurt her. 

_Conditioning_ , he realized, the kind of training they did by holding you back or tying you up, and subjecting you to all sorts of horrors, to condition your mind to expect and handle it. That was pain James would understand forever—pain he couldn’t yet explain, but he could feel. It was not the kind of hurt that wears off after time—no, it’s the kind that _sticks—_ the kind you remember for years afterwards, no matter how many times they wipe you. 

Now instead of Natalia, he could see a much clearer memory, himself. He’s in binds, stuck, _restrained_. The pain, it was more than he could bare to explain, the memory faltered visually, but he could hear it. His screams, muffled by something in his mouth, and the faint buzzing of a drill, or maybe a saw. He could feel it too, hands shoved in his abdomen, clawing and tangling the organs inside. It sent bile up it throat, threatening to spill out over himself and Romanoff.

“ _Alexei.”_ She says more clearly, “That’s what they called you. They told us you were our future—what we’d all become someday.” 

Then he remembered more, _he shot her_. She was older this time around—it was probably recently. Her hair was longer, a more vibrant shade of red, and they were in the desert, sand and hot dusty airsurrounding them. He didn’t mean to shoot her, _well yes he did_ , but she wasn’t his hit—she was laying on top of his hit. He’d shot her, or rather shot _through_ her. 

“Why can I remember now?” James asks, slowly coming back to reality.

What was she doing to him— _oh god_ — she had been speaking Russian. Did she know his trigger words? Of course she knew the fucking trigger words, she had to. _She had to._

He snatches his arm back now, forcefully. “Where the fuck did those memories come from?”

“You.” She says simply. “They’re there. They’re in you. You just need help getting to them.”

“Why the fuck would I want to remember that? _God_ , what they did to you? What they did to _me?_ ” He yells, chest rising faster and faster.

He could see the dim gray ceiling, and hear the scrape of a knife on skin, slicing through it. His ears were filled with the sound of screws going in and out of his metal arm, and he wanted to cover his ears to drown it out. He was reliving it now, strapped to the chair, begging, _pleading_ for them to kill him. He didn’t want to be let go anymore, he wanted to die. 

_“_ God _,_ Natalia, why—why would you” His breath was broken now, a full panic widening his eyes. 

She said something, but Bucky was too far into the panic now—he was almost screaming, clutching at the sides of his head and begging for something.

Before he could stop it, the words came tumbling out of his mouth. They’d been rehearsed in his head for weeks, months, and then _screamed_ for years whenever they cut into him, or electrocuted him, or beat him, “Позволь мне умереть, _(Let me die)_ ”

“Нет! _(No!)_ ” She yelled back, and before they knew it, Steve was there.

“What did you do?” He yells, eyes widened with a fear Natasha had never seen on him before. “What did you say to him?”

James was shaking, and backed up until he was flush against the wall. He whispered something, then after a moment, whispered it again, “Убей меня…пожалуйста, _пожалуйста (Kill me…please, please)_ ” 

“What the hell happened?” Steve was close now, in front of James, his hands holding the brunet’s neck gingerly. “Natasha! _What happened?”_

“He remembered.” She says quietly, assessing his state—again, it was almost disappointment in her look—but James was in no position to argue. He had failed. 

He failed then, when she was young and needed him, to save her from the life she had ahead of her, he failed again when he shot her in the desert, and he failed her now, to remember anything that could fucking help them. Instead his chest was hot with anger, because he hated feeling weak; because she triggered him for seemingly _no_ reason; but he was more angry that he was _scared shitless_ , and traumatized by a fucking _memory_. So much so, he couldn’t move his body to Steve, nor open his mouth to speak.

“James, I’m here.” Steve murmurs, patting and smoothing his hair, “It’s Steve, I’m here buddy.” 

He looked down at his hands, and flexed them lightly. The metal one somehow responded quicker than his flesh one. It made him angry—everything about him, every bad thing he was responsible for-- it defines him. That arm signified everything that _ruined_ him, and yet, it was all he had going for him. That pain in his chest turned into anger in the blink of an eye.

“Ты сделал это со мной. _(You did this to me.)_ ” He growls, and shoves Steve out of the way. He didn’t feel his arm shoot out, but it did, quicker than Romanov could stop him. His lean metal fingers wrapped around the soft flesh of her throat, and she gasps.

“No!” Steve yells, scrambling to his feet. “Stop it,”

“Зачем мне это делать, Наталья? _(Why would you do this to me, Natalia!)”_ He screams, tightening his grip. Her feet weren’t touching the floor anymore— she was turning blue.

“ _Bucky!”_ Steve yells, wrapping his fingers around James’ wrists. The word—Bucky— coming from Steve in a desperate, begging bark, and the warm touch of his lean fingers gripping his wrist made his eyes soften, and he suddenly realized what he was doing.

_He was choking Natasha._

His hand went limp, and somehow the redhead managed to land on her feet, coughing and hacking with her hands clutching her neck. 

“I—I’m sorry.” He whispers, glancing between Natasha, Steve, and his now trembling metal hand. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Steve yells.

Neither Natasha nor Bucky answer, instead Natasha stretched herself slightly and stood up straight, her hair falling back gracefully, not a strand out of place. Her face was still flushed, but she smiles lightly and nods, “It worked. He started to remember me.”

“Remember you?” Steve says, his anger clearly bubbling to the surface, his voice harsh. “He tried to strangle you.”

“ _Because_ he remembered me _.”_ She throws her head back and lets a strained laugh out. “Oh my God, this is fucking _amazing_ , Steve.”

Steve stared at her like she was stark fucking crazy—and maybe she was—but Buck’s face was covered with a thin veil of guilt, shame creeping up just behind.

 


	8. stark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // TW: references to suicide //

If there’s one thing he remembers about himself—and that’s a short list in itself— it’s that James Barnes _hates_ being pitied. 

For some _(probably fucked up, Steve-centered)_ reason, he finds it condescending and sees it as something _blatantly_ disrespectful. Never mind empathy being a good thing that prevents people from becoming blood-thirsty murderers— he loathes it.

When Bucky first realized what he was doing to Natasha, it was fear that consumed him. Fear of what was _still_ in him; fear of what _else_ he would remember. But after that, it had been anger. It had been steadily running through his body since Steve dragged him up to his apartment. 

He couldn’t speak all evening. He spent the afternoon balled up on the floor, wrestling with the thought that he could be so easily compromised. All it took was a few Russian words—and not even his fucking trigger words—to set him off. 

He couldn’t bear to even _look_ at Natasha after he’d hurt her, even though she tried her best to console him, it wasn’t worth her effort. _Pity_ was in her narrow, watery eyes; it was laced through her fluttery voice, and padded in her hefty apologies.

Steve was even worse. He tried so _hard,_ so _admirably,_ to speak in his normal voice, and to act normally, but he couldn’t. His pitch wavered when he spoke, and he quickly looked away every time he was caught giving Buck a long, apologetic look. It took every fiber of Bucky’s self-restraint not to smack the fresh bowl of soup out of his hands when he’d offered it for dinner. 

It was then that his demons returned. He remembers them well, the thoughts he would have when his handlers had him out on a mission too long—long enough for a little piece of Barnes to peak into The Soldier. It all seems so clear now, as the thoughts in his head wear _his_ voice to remind him that this nightmare of a life could end at anytime, if he were willing.

It was not the first time Bucky had ever thought about it, either.

He had imagined it countless times, but never had the means to see it through—never had control of his own mind long enough to do it.

It seems selfish, but he’s come to the realization that his _existence_ at this point was selfish. He would hurt so many more people in his life, powerless to prevent it; and if he hurts Steve, he’ll never forgive himself.

Now, he realizes, he’d lost track of time. He’s laying in bed, _Steve’s_ bed, with the blond stretched out next to him. He has no idea when he’d gotten there, nor how long he’s been there. Steve’s long limbs are thrown over Bucky’s frame, his mop of blonde hair just in his peripheral vision. 

He swears for a second that Steve is awake, and when he tilts his head up to check, the sight of him takes his breath away. He’s got dried tear trails on his cheeks, his hair disheveled, his lips gently parted—it sends a weird, warm feeling though Bucky’s chest. 

Guilt, however, creeps up just behind. 

It’s a stinging feeling, covering every inch of his skin that Steve’s arms and legs are touching, screaming ‘ _you don’t deserve him’_. 

He has _absolutely nothing_ left to live for anymore, besides Steve; and he doesn’t even deserve him. All he is, is a broken shell of a person doing nothing but ruining the people around him. He needs to leave—he needs to be gone. The sooner he does it, the sooner Steve can get past him and move on with his life. 

But he’s selfish— so he reaches out his metal hand and runs his pointer finger over Steve’s cheek, and down his jaw. 

Steve doesn’t move at all, probably not having felt it, but Bucky recoils. He slowly removes Steve’s possessively placed limbs, and slips out from under him.Steve slowly wraps hishimself around one of his pillows, not even noticing the difference. 

Slowly, Bucky pads out of the room, he doesn’t stop in the living room either, he keeps going, out into the hallway. 

He doesn’t remember his way to the lab, or at at least that’s what he tries to convince himself, but he arrives at its door, and without warning, it whizzes open. 

“Barnes.” A stiff voice calls out. 

The lab is dark when he looks in, but he still sees Tony standing at his desk, tinkering with something in his hands. Bucky wills himself forward, to get it over-with, but still cant manage to move his feet.

“Well don’t act shy now, you made it all the way here, didn’t you?” He says, still not looking up from his work. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. lets me know whenever you start moving around the tower. Or you know, whenever you breathe.” 

“I see.” Bucky doesn’t mind being constantly watched and monitored anymore; it’s lost its threat. He takes a few steps into the big empty laboratory.“So you saw it then?”

“When you went all WWE on the little spy?” Tony says with a small sound, with little laugh lines appearing on his cheeks. “Yeah, I saw it. Pretty entertaining.” 

“I…I lost control” His voice is quiet when he adds, “I could have killed her, Tony.”

“No, I think we’ve all wanted to do that at one point or another, but she’s just so small and fast, no one can ever fucking catch her.”The smaller man rolls his eyes, and turns the device in his hands over.

Bucky looks down at the piece of metal in Tony’s hands, recognizing it as a part of his suit.

“As much as I hate to admit it, or defend you in _any_ way, I think she had it coming. Didn’t she?” He says, finally looking up. “Oh _God_ , you look like shit, Barnes.” 

James could return the sentiment—Tony’s eyes are damn near bloodshot, blotches of purple and pale, sickly yellow dot his under eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well in months. Knowing him, that probably wasn’t far from the truth. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he needs Tony’s help, and men like Stark only respond well to flattery.

“Yeah.” Bucky says, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “I need to tell you something.” 

“What?” He asks. 

Buck looks at him, and sees a mix of emotions in his tired eyes. Hesitancy lingers at the forefront, his tightly knitted eyebrows give it away. 

“You don’t want to hear ‘I’m sorry’, but I need to say it—” Bucky starts, but Tony starts waving his hand and tutting. 

“I was just gettingaround to _tolerating_ you, Barnes. Don’t push it.”

Bucky whispers, “Thank you. Really—thank you. The way I see it, all I’ve got right now is Steve, and that’s because of you.” 

“No, that’s because of him” Tony interrupts again, setting the metal contraption down. “What? Are you two fighting or something? Because I’m not a marriage counselor; hash that shit out yourselves.”

It comes out quickly, burning his tongue on the way out, “I need you to do something for me.” 

“You,” He narrows his eyes skeptically. “You need a favor? And you came to _me_? Maybe you do have a few screws loose, buddy.” 

“I need you to hurt me.” His eyes are wet, and his throat tight. 

Tony narrows his eyes further and wavers, “ _‘Hurt you’_? Oh my God, that’s _definitely_ a kinky Steve thing, Barnes.”

“No,” Buck lets out a breath of a laugh and takes a step closer to him. “ _Hurt_ me _._ I’ve uh—I’ve done a _lot_ of shit, Tony— I can’t think of anyone who really deserves to be the one to do it, besides you.” 

Tony blinks, emptily, until realization hits him. “ _What the fuck,_ Barnes?”

“I figure you’ve got the means to make it stick this time.” As the words come out, regret instantly surges through Bucky’s body.

“You want me to fucking off you? What the fuck?” Tony yells, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated fear. He shoves at Buck’s chest, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, _no,_ you’re right. I shouldn’t have asked you for that— _fuck—_ I’m sorry.” He runs his hand through his hair and looks back towards the door, hoping Tony’s yelling doesn’t wake anyone.

Tony’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, his eyes glued to Bucky’s face. “ _Why_ would you want to die? What the fuck is going on, Barnes?”

“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice cuts in gently. “Your heart rate is getting dangerously high. I must ask you to calm down.”

“Calm down?” Tony bites back at his AI. “The man just asked me to fucking _kill_ him, and you’re asking me to calm down?”

“No, Tony, she’s right— I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have asked you something so heavy. It’s on me, you know? I shouldn’t drag anyone else into this.” Bucky adds, helplessly watching him have a panic attack—he’s well accustomed to panicking now. 

“Do you hear yourself? _‘Its on you’_?” Tony yells, shoving at his chest again. “Do you have any idea what that’ll do to Steve? To Natasha?”

Buck feels his selfishness wobble in his stomach. After a beat, he whispers,“They’ll be better off without me.”

“Oh my god.” Tony laughs, but its a dry, forced sound. 

“I’ll just go, just— Just don’t tell him I asked you first.” He whispers, and makes to leave, but Tony quickly matches his steps and grabs his shirt, yanking him back into the lab. 

“You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here? Let you just jump off the fucking tower or something?” Tony yells, “Fuck no.” 

Bucky stares at him for a second. His chest is rising and falling quickly—far quicker than it probably should be. The whites of his eyes are enormous, indicating a type of fear Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before, on anyone. Still, he’s thoroughly confused. If anyone had reason to facilitate his suicide, it was Tony Stark. 

Quietly, Bucky asks, “Why not?”

“Fuck you, that’s why.” Tony snaps. He opens his mouth to say something, but slowly lets his lips shut. Then after a beat he whispers “Just—just sit down and talk to me.” 

“Tony, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” He says, less angrily now. His hand is till fisted in Bucky’s shirt, and he loosens his grip a little. He pulls him into a hug, and Bucky thinks this just might be the strangest thing to ever happen to him. 

He isn’t sure what he expected him to feel like. Maybe he was still going to shove a dagger in his neck when he got close enough. A moment passes, sans-dagger, and he can’t deny that the warmth Tony radiates is real and comforting. It takes him another moment of standing in the embrace for him to realize Tony’s response as one of _solidarity—_ he understands Bucky’s perspective because _he’s been there before_.

****

“I get it.” Tony murmurs into his sandwich. “Sometimes it’s easier to think things will be better without you. Spoiler alert: it wont be.”

Bucky is standing across of him, sipping a cup of coffee. The smaller man is perched up on the kitchen counter, halfway through a hastily made breakfast. It took them entirely too long to find the materials for their makeshift meal. After opening every cabinet in the ginormous kitchen in search of plates, they settled into an easy rhythm of of movements around the room, and a steady conversation. Tony fried the eggs, and Bucky made the coffee. 

It’s almost six in the morning, and the sun is peaking up over the city, bathing the tower in a pale yellow light. 

“How can you know that?” Bucky says, glaring at his eyes’ reflection in his dark coffee mug. 

“Because—” He swallows a bite, “We’ve all lost people. When they’re gone, their problems only leave _them_. It’s pretty shitty to think like that—but that’s the reality. Sooner or later, the people you left will have to deal with what you leave behind.” 

Bucky ponders it for a second. He’s right. _God,_ he’s been right all night. 

“You got that look on your face again, Barnes—you can say it, you know?” He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face,as he sets his plate down beside him. “You can say ‘Gee, Tony, you’re right. I never thought you could be so knowledgeable! am I glad I wandered into your lab in the middle of the night’. You can say it. I won’t stop you.”

“Fuck off.” Bucky says into his coffee cup, trying not to laugh and spill it.

Of all people to walk in on the pair, Sam Wilson chooses this exact moment to round the corner into the kitchen. 

He stops dead in his tracks, a look of mild confusion on his masculine features. His smooth, dark skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat. It’s dampened his shirt almost completely, and the headphones slung around his neck tells them he’s just finished his early morning workout.

“Oh,” Sam mutters, caught off guard by the duo. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here so…early.”

“Relax, bird-brain,” Tony hops off of the counter, and sets his mug and plate into the dishwasher. “I’ve had enough caffeine for the morning. I’m not set to start yelling again for a few hours.” 

Sam physically relaxes at the statement. Bucky smiles lightly. With a personality like Tony’s, he’s sure the engineer could be less than favorable before his caffeine fix. 

“Don’t break anything, old man. I’ll be in the lab. ” Tony claps a hand on his shoulder and heads towards the hallway. Before he leaves, he calls over his shoulder. “In case anyone needs me.” 

“He’s speaking to you now?” Sam says once Tony’s footsteps disappear. His eyebrows are knitted together tightly, and slowly, he folds his arms across his chest. 

“It seems so.” Bucky whispers, and adds his mug to the dishwasher as well.

“Huh.” Sam wavers, assessing Bucky with precision. “So, Steve doesn’t have coffee in his apartment?” 

Bucky swallows, and meets his eyes. “Sam—”

“I’m not trying to read into this, Barnes. I’m just sayin’, you better be moving smart with Stark. He’s had it out for you since you got off that jet. I don’t know how you got him to sit in the same room as you without him going ballistic—” 

“It’s complicated.” Bucky cuts him off.

“Complicated?”

“Listen—just, don’t tell Steve.” Bucky says, immediately realizing how defensive he must sound. He shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I need him to hear this from me.”

“Alright.” Sam unfolds his arms and lets his eyes soften.. “I wont tell him. But if he asks me what I know, I’ll spill. I’m not going to lie to him.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to, Sam.” 

Sam nods, and claps his hand on Bucky’s metal shoulder. “Good. Now if I were you, I’d get back to his apartment before he wakes up.” 


	9. his girl F.R.I.D.A.Y.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATES:
> 
> First off: I cant believe this has gotten six hundred+ hits! That's insane! Thank you all so much for reading, I really hope you all enjoy the story!
> 
> Next, I really had half a mind to end the story around here, but I'm having so much fun writing it that I really don't want to end it!
> 
> I had a plan to make a spideypool sequel/mini-fic that branches off when they figure out what happens to Peter, but I could just add it to the end of this story... let me know what you guys think in the comments! Are you riding spideypool wave? Or is that sequel territory?
> 
> I really do appreciate all the love on my first fic! <3 xx

Bucky made it into the apartment before Steve had woken up. Or at least he thinks he did. 

When Steve initially woke up, Bucky hadn’t been beneath him like he had been when they fell asleep. He considered getting up and looking for him, but he kept himself settled beneath the sheets, remembering the previous day’s events. He probably just wanted to be alone, maybe to think and be with his thoughts for a while. Steve had kept a keen eye on him the entire evening before, so perhaps he just needed some solitude.

Then, he remembered the fear he saw in his eyes when his memories began to subside. Relentless, abhorrent fear had cracked his voice and rendered him completely frozen in place. What if he were sitting somewhere so deep into a panic attack that he can’t move or speak? 

Just as he was about to get out of the bed the door creaked open, and James slowly snuck inside. Steve didn’t move,—and James evidently assumed he was still asleep—he just peaked out from under his lashes to see what he was doing. 

“Steve?” he as whispered so silently it almost hadn’t registered, and slips under the sheets. 

“Mhm?” Steve had mumbled. “Where’d you go?” 

“Bathroom.” He murmured, then settles in beside him. Buck runs his rough palm up the inside of Steve’s thigh, settling just at the hem of his boxers. 

“Oh.” Steve whispers. He, unlike the bathroom, smells like rich black coffee. 

Steve wasn’t sure when they’d started lying to each other, but he doesn’t like it. He tries his best to notice anything else out of the ordinary on the other man, but his lips press down gently against Steve’s and he finds it unbelievably difficult to pay attention to his thoughts.

“Are you feeling better?” Steve murmurs when he finally breaks the kiss. 

“Yeah.” Buck slips his hand in Steve’s hair and smiles gently. “Much better.”

 

***

 

Steve’s day got even weirder, if that was even possible. 

Bucky left to train with Natasha, as he’s grown accustomed to do over the past few days. Steve had prodded him, unsure that he was ready to face the little spy just yet. Bucky had the oddest look on his face, as if he hadn’t realized that leaving to train with Natasha meant _seeing_ Natasha. 

He insisted he needed to face the situation head on, and asked Steve not to intervene.Begrudgingly, Steve agreed, traveled down to the work spaces in the tower, and settled into his office to follow Sam’s leads. To lengthen the list of odd happenings that morning, the paratrooper himself appeared in the doorway. 

“Cap, I’ve got some news, both good and bad.” Sam says with a lofty sigh, as he sets a blue S.H.I.E.L.D. folder on his desk. 

“Start with the good, then.” He says. He needs to hear something positive at least _once_ today. With one flip of the page, he spots a few photographs of Peter’s kidnappers.

“You’re looking at it.” Sam folds his arms across his broad chest. “That’s the asshole that took Peter, Francis Freeman. He’s already in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. He’s been locked up before for some pretty nasty stuff: aggravated assaults and kidnappings. Got out on parole each time. A lot of his record is classified, though.”

“So he’s got friends in high places.” Steve says wearily. “And the bad news?”

Sam sighs and looks down. “My guys in Harlem—they lost him. He got too antsy, and started covering his tracks a little better. They think he’s heading north, towards Westchester.” 

“Damn it.” Steve curses under his breath, snapping the folder shut. “Well, keep me posted.”

“Got it,” Sam nods, and collects the file from Steve’s outstretched hand, and makes to leave.

“Sam?”

He turns back around, with one hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if Bucky was in the gym in this morning, would you?” Steve asks, eyes trained on Sam’s. 

Sam blinks, and immediately diverts his eyes. Guilt is all over his face. “Oh? No, I don’t. He wasn’t with you?” 

“He was in my apartment for most of the night, yeah. He just had an early start, I guess.” Steve smiles warmly, through tightly gritted teeth. 

Of all the people who he expected to lie to him, Sam was at the absolute _bottom_ of the list. 

Sam smiles back, probably feeling content that he’d averted Steve’s suspicion, and closes the door behind him. Steve leans back in his desk chair and sighs. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” 

The AI immediately responds. “Yes, Captain Rogers?” 

This was an entirely different level of snooping, but Steve was curious as to what could be so bad that even _Sam_ would lie to him. 

“Where was Bucky this morning just before dawn?”

“Sergeant Barnes?” F.R.I.D.A.Y. asks.

“Yes. Where was he?”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you, Captain.” The voice is calm—almost smug, but that could just be Steve’s dwindling patience talking.

“Why not?” Steve narrows his eyes at the ceiling. With no physical person there to intimidate, he’s really just squinting up at the PA speakers.

“My core programming doesn’t allow me to divulge Mr. Stark’s location—past or present— when he’s in the tower.” She supplies happily. 

He all but jumps forward out of his seat. “What?”

“My core programming does not allow me to—”

“No, I got that,” Steve grumbles, his mind swarming. “What—what about Wilson? Where was Sam Wilson at dawn?”

“I can account for Sam Wilson’s location from 05:00 to 06:24. He was in the east wing training facility, as he is on most mornings.” 

“And where was he at six thirty?” 

“I’m sorry, Captain, but I cannot answer that. Would you like me to request Mr. Stark’s permission to provide you with this information?”

“No, no!” He says, settling back into the chair. 

Doubt swirls around in Steve’s mind like a whirlpool with so many unanswered questions. He can’t imagine why Bucky would be _near_ Stark, much less with him for hours. He definitely doesn’t understand why Sam would lie to him about it, either. Jealousy pangs deep in his stomach, and he rises from his seat.

Someone is going to tell him the truth, and seeing that Bucky was compromised less than a day ago, the responsibility falls onTony.

 

***

 

Although dying is no longer on his mind, guilt still is. 

He is currently hiding from Natasha and Steve in Tony’s penthouse, the one place no one would think to look for him. The engineer was gracious enough to offer the space for Bucky to find some much needed solitude from his overzealous handlers. 

He can’t help his guilt, really. He remembers Clint. Not well, but he _remembers_ him, something that has proved to be nearly impossible for him. Peter he’s begun to remember too, though not so much _Peter_ as much as _Spider-man_ , the guy who tossed him around like a rag doll and shoots sticky stuff from his wrists. 

He doesn’t remember much else about him, besides his bright red and blue suit. He pushes the thought out of his mind and focuses on the space he’s in.

Tony’s apartment is as he’d expected: expensiveand artsy, yet minimal and practical. Almost everything is white, or shades of gray, with dark navy accents peppered throughout. He’s got large abstract paintings on the walls, one of which covers an entire wall in the foyer. He can see it from where he’s sitting, and if he quints just right, all the random lines form a mirage of Pepper, looking back at the artist over her shoulder. 

It’s a beautiful a work of talent, and sure enough, the bottom corner is signed ‘Stark’. 

He almost feels bad hiding from Steve, but he knows the Captain would spend every waking moment making sure he was alright. Steve had a life before Bucky came into the picture, with a job that people expected his complete devotion to, and he deserves to continue it. 

At Tony’s bar is a array of liquors, some he recognizes and many more he doesn’t. Propped up on the little table beside it, are a few photo frames. Upon further inspection, he notices one of Tony, Pepper, and a teenage boy, with the Brooklyn bridge in the background. That must be Peter. 

He inspects the boy, who’s clearly no more than twenty or so, with a mop of wild curly hair on his head. He’s got the biggest, most soulful eyes Buck has ever seen, and a broad crooked smile. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., do you have any footage of Peter Parker that I can see?” He asks the empty room.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. Immediately responds. “Of course. Which of Mr. Parker’s entries would you like to see?’

A blueish hologram suddenly appears in front of him, showcasing a list of what Bucky assumes are video diaries. 

“Um, are these...private?” Buck asks quietly.

“No, Sergeant Barnes, they are not. Boss has granted you more permissions in my systems, so you may see Mr. Parker’s vlogs, if you wish.”

“Vlogs?” Bucky murmurs, unfamiliar with the term. He taps the last entry on the list. It’s an odd feeling—tapping a hologram. His hand doesn’t physically touch anything, but it makes a soft _click_ sound and the video starts playing. 

“Karen!” Peter’s young voice fills the empty apartment, loud yet hesitant, as the screen remains black.

“Yes, Peter?” Another female voice answers, over the sound of high winds.

“Engage web grenades,” he yells, and then the sound of his webs flying fill the room.

Suddenly, the hologram turns white, before the camera on Peter’s suit begins to adjust to the sudden change in lighting.

When it does, Bucky sees Peter is atop an MTA train, with three men stuck in webs to the car ahead of him. A bridge grows smaller in the distance, where the train had just passed under it.

Peters voice is elated now, “Oh my God, Karen. Wait ‘til I tell Mr. Stark that I finally had a fight on top of a moving train—,”

“I’m not sure that would be wise, Peter.” Karen responds, “You may scare him.”

“Yeah, _or—,”_

Peter is cut off by a loud gunshot, and the loud crackling of electricity. 

The sound sends chills down Bucky’s spine—he can almost smell flesh burning. He falls off of the train, landing with a loud, blood curdling _crack_ on the pavement. He lands face first, so the shadow of the hologram casts a dark shade over Bucky, who’s sitting completely still with a bewildered expression.

The train whizzes by, leaving the quiet sounds of the city in the distance. Slow, deliberate steps grow louder and louder, and Bucky can barely hear it over his own heart thundering in his chest. With a heavy sigh, a man flips Peter’s body over, and Bucky’s eyes settle on him. 

The man is tall and broad, with piercing gray eyes, and a shaven head. A thick British accent slips though his lips when he speaks into his earpiece. “Got the kid. No, he’s alive.”

He glances down at Peter’s eyes, effectively looking directly at Bucky, as well. “Well then, lets have a look at you, then.” 

With one clean movement, he slips Peter’s mask off, and groans to himself.“Lovely.” 

The man crushes the mask in his hand, smashing all the intricate wires and components, which abruptly ends the feed. 

“That’s when he disappeared?” Bucky asks the air, still staring at the ended video. “That was his last location?”

“Yes.” The AI responds curtly.

“Well—well can’t you just track the suit?” Bucky stammers, and rewinds the video slightly. 

“Unfortunately Peter’s suit was removed and left at that location. It was found under the bridge, near tire tracks.” 

The video plays backfrom the moment Peter falls off of the train, and although he knew what was coming, Bucky couldn’t help but flinch at the sound he made when he fell. “They stripped him out of the suit?”

“Yes.” The AI replies. _‘Lovely’_ the hologram replays in the man’s sickly, aroused voice, causing a violent shudder to shake Bucky’s entire body.

He can’t explain it, but the rage in his chest was strong enough to surge him to his feet, without hesitation. What he needs to do is clear as day to him now.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” He huffs. 

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” 

“There’s something I need you to do for me.” 


	10. two super-slut soldiers and a professional liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO Chapter ten!!!
> 
> So with the way I've story-boarded in my noggin, this is roughly the half-way point of this fic. I hope you've enjoyed it this far, and you're with me for the rest of the ride! 
> 
> xx

Bucky really hopes that Steve is listening to his request that he not meddle with him today, because if he walked into his apartment right now, he might actually pass out. His entire dining room table and wall are covered with photos and blueprints. 

It didn’t take long to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. compile everything he needed, especially not since Tony had given him more access to the AI’s features. 

Soon enough, he had the blueprints of every shady-looking building in Westchester divided into sections: places he definitely recognized, places that were vaguely familiar, and places he had no recollection of. He also had the results from the tire track’s analysis: they belonged to a van, the model of which he had a photo printed and stuck to the table. 

He left simple instructions for F.R.I.D.A.Y., and after—dare he say it— _bonding_ with the system all day, he felt as though she were more than capable. 

“Sergeant Barnes, are you sure you would like to go forward with this plan of action?” 

“Yes, Fri, please don’t ask me again, I might change my mind.” he chuckles lightly, as if the supercomputer would return the awkward laugh. 

Instead, she just asks again, this time slowly. “ _Are you sure?_ ”

He clears his throat, and more firmly replies. “Yes.” 

“We’ll need a name for the mission, then. I suggest Operation Retrieval, as it is most applicable.” 

“Retrieval. Got it.” He says, checking all of his holsters and pockets for their corresponding weapons.

“Let’s begin.” 

Bucky sits down, and looks up at the camera that descends from the ceiling.

He wouldn't have another opportunity to back out. He'd taken all the appropriate precautions, and prepared as well as he could. He set up a failsafe; a plan begging for the others to stop him if things got out of control. It was hard, but he also wrote a few letters—goodbye letters, he realized after writing them—and left instructionsAlthough he doesn't remember much of this process, he does have a little bit of an idea. 

“Longing,” The feminine voice begins.

Bucky feels his chest tighten, fear unmistakably cold on his fingertips,and clenches his fists. _Keep it together, Barnes_.

“Rusted,” she continues. “Furnace. Daybreak.”

He feels himself slipping, almost like he’s being stifled—pushed back. It’s getting harder to breathe. 

“Seventeen, Benign.” 

He’s gasping now— _choking_. It’s getting hard to see; blotches of black disturb his vision.

“Homecoming. One.”

_‘That’s it’_ , he thinks, _‘This is it.’_

“Freight car.” 

Bucky is gone—just like that. In his place is the blank, complacent, newly-activated Soldier. 

His spine straightens, stretching up to Bucky’s full hight. 

His eyes blink, Bucky’s brightly burning eyes replaced with the Soldier’s empty, dejected ones. He moves his body— _Bucky’s body_ —in a way that’s too stiff to be human, but too flawless to be anything else.

“Soldier.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says quietly. “What is your status?”

Bucky had had F.R.I.D.A.Y. read just about every document in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database about the Winter Soldier HYDRA trials, and she’d managed to figure out their briefing sessions went.

The Soldier blinks again. Bucky’s voice, devoid of all emotion, quietly says, “All systems functioning. Asset Compliant. Ready and willing to receive orders.” 

“Good. Mission codename: Retrieval.” She says, and the Soldier nods. “Your objective is to retrieve Clint Barton and Peter Parker, _alive,_ and return them to me.”

The AI almost sounds pained that she had to specify the men be brought back breathing. The Soldier just nods again.

“Step over to that table and look at those documents.” She says, and the Soldier quickly shoots to his feet and follows the order. “Is any of this familiar to you?”

He nods, and with smooth almost mechanical movements, he collects the things he remembers; almost exclusively sifting through Bucky’s _‘definitely remember this’_ pile. When he stops sorting, waiting for further instructions, he’s holding one building’s blueprint, Francis Freeman’s photo, and a few HYDRA dossiers. 

“If HYDRA took these men, is this where they’d keep them, long term?” 

“Yes.” The Soldier replies. 

He looks up, not  _at_ anything, just up from the table, automatically searcing for someone to obey.

“The arsenal is on Level 42. Use it to your discretion. You have 48 hours.”

 

***

 

“Boss, I’ve been asked to relay a message to you, from Sergeant Barnes.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says, startling Tony.

He sets his suit’s thermal regulator down onto the work table with a soft _thunk_. He was _never_ going to get his heater fixed before winter really got started—it was supposed to start snowing tomorrow.If it were up to the people in this building _consistently_ interrupting his work, he’d be a tin popsicle for Christmas.

“Have at it, Fri.” He grumbles, shifting his protective eyewear up onto his head. 

“I’m not sure I understand the intended implication, so I will relay it verbatim.” She says, and for a tiny moment, he’s disappointed. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is years behind JARVIS’s eloquence and knowledge of colloquialisms. “The message reads: ‘Thank you. For everything. Get Peter’s sheets changed.” 

Instantly, he perks up. F.R.I.D.A.Y. could not understand what that meant, not because she was dim, but because she’d been placed into passive observation mode when he and Barnes had that conversation. 

Tony had divulged to Bucky that he’d left Peter’s room just the way it had been before he was taken—not a speck out of place—except that he sometimes spent the night coiled up on the kid’s bed with a bottle of something strong. 

He’d told him the room was becoming less and less like Peter’s, what with the unmistakable smell of booze lingering because he’d spilled some on the sheets. 

“Show me the cameras in the penthouse.” He barks, moving over to the large LED display on the wall. His kitchen, his living room, his _apartment_ is empty, with no sign of Bucky. 

Dread settles in his gut. 

James had told him he could do it—get Peterand Clint back—but he’d have to do something horrible first. Part of him knows this is _very_ bad—but part of him can’t help but feel a little twinge of hope. He’s getting his boy back. 

_Peter_ , he’s coming home. 

Still, he’s finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

“Boss?”

“Yeah, I’m taking deep breaths,” Tony snaps, “Fuck off.” 

He can see the grainy video in his mind, of the Soldier’s soulless eyes staring directly into the surveillance camera as he wrapped his metal hand around his mother’s throat and choked her to death. Tony doesn’t want that for him—for _Bucky_.

Bile rises in his throat, and he springs into motion. He has to stop him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. Get Natasha up here.”

 

***

 

Natasha made her way to the lab quietly, as all ways. She hates the floors in this wing, because whatever material they were made of is impossible to walk on without making some sort of noise. Although her soft, almost soundless steps were nothing compared to Tony’s heavy approaching stomps. He rounded the corner just as she got to the laboratory’s doors. 

“What took you so long?” Tony asks, putting his hand on the wall, which makes the doors whizz open.

“Nothing?” She narrows her eyes at him; he seems jumpy. “I came as soon as F.R.I.D.A.Y asked.” 

Tony glanced down the hallway before darting into the lab, “Sure, yeah.” 

Natasha follows behind, allowing some distance to grow between the two of them. “What is it, Tony?”

Tony has a look on his face—a look she’s seen before and knows it doesn’t mean well. He’s conflicted, probably between doing nothing, or doing a bad thing for a good reason. He clicks the pen in his hand and then taps it against his knuckle.

“What…what are his trigger words?” Tony asks, meeting her eyes. “Do you know them?”

“What—Barnes?” She asks, and narrows her eyes at him, “Jesus, Tony, what are you trying to do?”

“I’m getting real tired of people around here questioning my every move.” He quips, tossing the pen somewhere off to the side, where it clanks against something. “Doesn’t it bother you? Barton being locked up somewhere—we don’t even know if he’s still alive—and Peter? Fucking Peter—I’m responsible for that, that’s on my head.”

“Peter went back out there against his orders, and Barton’s a grown man, he knew the risks and he still played it too close.” She says carefully, “They wouldn’t kill either of them, otherwise they’d have nothing to bargain with.”

Tony’s face is set angrily. “And? I asked you for his magic words, not a summary of our fuck-ups.” 

“I think you’re crossing a line.” She says, her voice sharp. “Watch yourself, Stark. Do you really want to betray Cap like that? Weaponize his best friend?” 

He blinks and leans back on his heels. “You’re defending him, now? Great, so now I’ve got two super-slut soldiers _and_ a professional liar to worry about.” 

Natasha didn’t say anything in response. She just stared at him disapprovingly, which only served to make Tony angrier. 

“He isn’t in his right mind—he shouldn't be making decisions for himself right now” Tony yells, flailing his hands out. “How can you all not see that?”

Natasha all but yells now, “Do you hear yourself?Tony, he means the world to Steve. My God, he’s the only person left in the world who knows what I’ve been through—what Wanda’s been through. He’s a wreck, every time he so much as thinks about you, the guilt almost kills him.Get your head out of your ass and show a little fucking sympathy—God knows we do it for you all the time.”

He meant to correct himself—because _that_ wasn’t what he meant—he wanted to know how they couldn’t see that Barnes had been inches away from some grandiose act of self-sacrifice; and that he was probably out somewhere _right now_ doing just that. He doesn’t correct himself though, because the inflection in her tone was enough to pique his arrogance, and he couldn’t help but prod her. 

He narrows his eyes and gears up to argue. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not going to make this about you—as much as I’m sure you want to— I wont.” She cuts, taking a short breath. She shouldn’t have said that, but her emotions were running so high that she couldn’t help it. 

_'Fine_ ' his expression says, stubbornly. He straightens his posture and the muscles in his jaw flex.“Do you know his trigger words?”

She scoffs. “Yes, yes I do, Tony, but I’m not just going to sit back and watch you hand him over to them on a silver platter.” 

“Hand him to who?” 

The pair both stepped back defensively, but soften when they realize it’s only Steve standing in the doorway. Well, Tasha softened her stance, but Tony remained tense, still just as uncomfortable. 

Natasha folded her arms across her chest and cut her eyes over to Tony. “Well go on, tell him your brilliant plan then.”

He scoffs, as Steve just stares blankly. “Yeah, because he’d do anything to his boyfriend, even if it saved half our goddamn team.”

“Excuse me?” Steve narrows his eyes and stalks closer.The look on his face tells Natasha he’s offended—only slightly, but offended none the less—but still hasn’t grasped the entirety of what Tony meant. “I’d do anything to save Barton and Parker.”

“He wants to bait them out.” Tasha forces, before Tony can bring up Steve and James’ relationship again. That would get ugly, and like it or not, if she wanted to see Clint again, she had to admit that Tony was right—Barnes was the key. 

Steve’s eyes widen slightly, and he chuckles—he fucking _chuckles_. “You’re joking right?”

He’s quiet for a second, looking as if he were wondering whether or not to strangle the blond in front of him. “Does it look like I’m feeling funny, Rogers?”

“You want to take the only thing HYDRA wants—the only thing we have over them—and hand it over? All jokes aside, thats a terrible plan.”

Tony can’t help it, his anger bubbles violently, and he yells, “No, I want to get that _thing_ out of this building, and get our fucking friends back” 

Shock etches its way into Steve’s face.

“That’s enough—” Natasha begins, but Steve cuts her off. 

“ _That thing_?” Steve asks, the surprise on his face slowly morphing into something sinister—something _angry_.

Natasha tries, “Alright, that’s enough—” 

“Yeah, that thing—the one you can’t seem to keep your hands off of.” Tony throws his hands up, then points accusingly, “Fucking like its going out of style, you know there our people are locked up in a _box_ somewhere while you two break bed frames.” 

Steve had always been the sort of person who was all polite smiles: who would take and take and take until he’d had enough and his resolve broke, forcing everything that had piled up to hit him all at once. Everything—every little backhanded comment, every wayward glance— every ounce of it, was sitting on his shoulders, waiting to crush him, and _that?_

Well, _that_ was the last straw. 

Something clicked in Steve. It happened really fast, Natasha barely having seen it; but instantly, he was at Tony’s face, his arm reeled back to deliver a blow. The first few landed square in Stark’s face, the others were messy, _angry._

Natasha tried to pull Steve off of him, but with a quick flick of his arm, he sent her back a few feet. Stumbling, she manages, “F—F.R.I.D.A.Y., engage Emergency Restraint Protocol, target Stephen Grant Rogers.” 

Friday’s voice fills the lab between punches, “I’m sorry Agent Romanoff, you are not authorized to engage this protocol against that target.”

Tony coughs, his face sticky with his own blood, and manages, “F.R.I—F.R.I.D.A.Y., o-override,” 

“Overriding.” Fridays voice returns, and the door whizzes shut.

The bright lights went off, and red emergency lights surge, casting a dreary crimson glow ever the entire lab. On her command, pieces of the Mark II began flying into the room, attaching to Steve’s body.First the arms, then the left leg,then the torso, pinning him up against the lab’s wall. 

“Get—,” Steve yells, before the helmet attaches over his blonde hair, and the face-plate comes down, effectively blocking him from making any noise.

The door opens again, and Bruce is on the other side, and seconds later, Vision and Sam appear as well.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Bruce huffs, eyes darting between Tony on his hands and knees on the floor coughing wretchedly, Natasha glaring angrily at him, and Steve in the Iron Man suit trying to un-pin himself from the wall. “What the—who’s in the suit?”

Tony flips over and sits, legs out in front of him, glancing at the Avengers in the doorway. _Wilson, Banner, Vision_ , Wanda appears too, after a moment; then he realizes.

Through globs of blood, Tony manages, “Where’s Barnes?”

Steve grunts from inside the suit, but is still unable to move. 

Vision glances at Sam, “Well, for all the commotion, we assumed he was here.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. locate Sergeant Barnes.” Tony tries to yell, but his voice cuts out.

“I am currently unable to locate Sergeant James Barnes.” Her voice booms across the lab.

Natasha groans in disbelief. “What?”

“I’ve been manually programmed to cease tracking Sergeant Barnes’ movements.” 

Tony growls, swiping to his feet. “What? _By who_?” He slides the back of his hand against his face, wiping the blood from his nose.

“By you, sir.”

He grumbles, tapping away on the keys. “No I—When?”

Steve grumbles, finally able to use all of his force to tap the button on the side of the helmet that retracts the face-plate. “Where—Where is he?”

“When, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Tony asks again, forcefully.

Her voice glitches when she speaks this time. “E—Ex—actly nineteen minutes and thirty-two seconds ago, al—altered from the mainframe server located on level forty-two.” 

“Override all commands from the last hour, where the _fuck_ is he?” Tony yells, causing the room to grow quiet at his sudden fervor. 

“Sergeant Barnes left the tower exactly fourteen minutes and fifty seconds ago, via quinjet.” 

“Where the hell is he going?” Tasha asks, glaring at Tony. “What did you say to him?”

Tony taps the keys furiously, unable to find what he’d looking for. “I didn't say—Fri, where is he going?” 

“Unable to pinpoint his current location. Last known location: just over Westchester County, New York.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a really rough chapter for me to write :(
> 
> I really wanted to capture the tension, the high stakes, and Tony's short temper, but I feel like I dropped the ball on that. Also, when my friends read over the chapter after I posted it, they mentioned that they didn't understand why Tony was so suddenly bitter about Bucky, calling him a 'thing'. When writing that section, I felt like Tony was less angry so about Bucky and more angry about the Soldier in the Tower somewhere. 
> 
> I hope it wasn't too rough to follow along with Tony's decision-making!


	11. red leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier returns with the missing Avengers, and a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> I've been gone a while, dealing with some life stuff, but I'm back! I have a few chapters lined up that I've been trying to re-read and edit before posting, to avoid all those little typos that drive me insane, lol!
> 
> A few important notes before the chapter begins: this is meant to be a sort of 'Book II' to the first half of the story. Although the original plot/ Steve-Bucky storyline will continue, I'm bringing in a few more familiar MCU faces and giving the fic a few more layers.
> 
> !!! Additional notes at the end as well !!!
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy this installment!
> 
> xx

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They had searched.

For _weeks_. 

The Soldier was a ghost. Gone in an instant, and he would only be found when he was _ready_ to be found; when he had fully completed his mission.

And finally, _finally_ , he had.

 

***

 

It’s a cold day in February when they find them. Cold enough to freeze Steve’s shield to his armband, but nothing had chilled the remaining Avengers quite as much as the sight in front of them. The stolen quinjet had resurfaced on Tony’s radar, and within minutes the team assembled at the airfield. Sure enough, it was parked about a quarter of a mile across from where they’re gathered. 

The airport’s tarmac was almost completely covered in snow. Although it had stopped coming down, the delicate flakes lay clumped together against the asphalt. 

Straight out of some sort of freak show, three men approached them; one was unmistakably the Soldier, with his hair tied up and his dejected eyes focused on Steve’s shield. There was no discernible emotion on his face, but a glint of interest quickly surfaced in his eyes at the sight of Cap’s emblem. Steve didn’t recognize the other two men, but one was tall and broad, in a tight red leather suit of some sort, with the other’s arm draped over his shoulder.

The other Avengers clearly recognized him, because beside him, Natasha reached for her handgun.

“Easy, Red.” the tall one says, a little muffled because his mask covers his lips. 

She replaces it at her hip—not because the man had told her to—because they were close enough that they recognized the third man.

_Peter_.

He’s severely malnourished—almost six feet tall, but clearly only about a hundred and ten pounds. A gray sweatshirt covers most of his frail frame, but his limbs are thin and stick-like, like they could snap with the faintest touch.

“Peter,” Tony’s voice cracks. The suit is the only thing preventing him from falling to his knees. He chokes on a cry, watching the young man squint at him.

Tony let his eyes run over the man beside his son. He knows him; and to know Wade Wilson is to hate him.

 

***

 

Tony lurches forward towards Peter, but Steve watches the man in the red suit tuck Peter’s body behind his own, saying, “Hey, take it _slow_ , Tin-Man. Jesus, what is it with you people? Everyone just take a fucking step back, yeah?” 

“Why the fuck are you here?” Natasha says, glaring at the man incredulously. 

Steve hadn’t heard Natasha curse so unabashedly before. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Well, someone’s a little late to the party.” He says, looking over to the Soldier. “Slash over here didn’t tell you? He needed my help; so I had to leave Brooklyn, and let me tell you, that _sucked._ ” 

The Soldier is still looking directly at Steve, his eyebrows slightly knitted, as if he were trying to remember who he was.

Steve grunts, frustrated. _Brooklyn?_ How on earth had they been here, _in New York_ , and not have been found? S.H.I.E.L.D. had just about every operative scouring every inch of the goddamned city. “We looked for them everywhere—”

“Why the fuck are you _here_?” Natasha repeats, taking a step closer. “Where’s Clint?”

“Oh bird-boy? Bird-man?” the man says, the white eyes of his suit widening. “He’s fine. We just dropped him off, actually. He’s with his wife—Lauren? Laura?” he glances over at the Soldier for a moment, trying to remember her name. “Yoo-hoo, big guy? Well, anyways, she was real nice—and she makes a _mean_ lasagna—”

“Then why are you still here, Wilson?” Tony cuts him off, finally tearing his eyes away from Peter.

_Wilson,_ Steve thinks. The name doesn’t ring any bells whatsoever, so he returns his gaze to Buck—or rather, the Soldier—who is still staring at him.

“Well, _fuck_ my feelings, huh?” Wilson whines, slipping his hand under Peter’s waist to balance him better. 

“Stop.” Peter whispers. It’s quiet, but everyone listens, drifting into an uneasy silence. “I want to go home.”

“Yeah, Baby-boy, we’ll get you home in no time.” Wilson says, his voice serious now.

“‘ _Baby-boy’_?” Tony makes a strangled noise in his throat, and his eyes bug out of his head. “That’s it—put him _down_.” 

“No.” Peter barks, louder this time, efficiently silencing the group again. “Wade stays.”

“Peter—”

“He stays.” Peter repeats, his face stern. 

Steve almost wants to agree with him; the boy looked terribly weak and sleep deprived. His eyes are sunken, his face pale and sickly; and yet he was using what little energy he had to insist that the man—Wade— stay with him.

“Looks like I’m staying, Stark.” Wade says, firmly. Tony’s jaw clicks, and he summons the car closer. 

“Fine.” Tony says, “Whatever you need, Peter.” 

“Oh, and will someone take the prodigal son to the lady who turned him on?” Wade adds, as if he had almost forgotten. “I think he’s getting tired of being awake.” 

“The lady who turned him on?” Steve asks, confused.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.” The Soldier says, quietly. “Level 75 of Stark Tower.” 

Steve nods. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had been the one who activated him; _he needs to report_ _back_.

Everyone begins to move, to take their respective rides back to the tower, but Steve doesn’t— neither does the Soldier. They stand across from one another for a moment, each assessing the other.

“Steve.” The Soldier says, like the name had finally come to him. It’s James’ voice, Steve realizes, but not his word. It doesn’t _sing_ the way it does when Bucky says it. “I’ve missed you—or _he_ has. I feel it.” 

Steve doesn’t speak for a long moment.

 

***

 

The very first person that Steve sees upon returning to the Tower is the Wakandan princess. How she’d gotten there on such short notice seemed strange, even considering the kind of technology she has at her disposal. 

Shuri is exceptionally tall and slender, much like her brother. Today, her long braids aren’t in their signature buns; instead, the long strands drift down her back and graze at her hips. She’s dressed in Western clothes: a plain white t-shirt and dark jeans, and it makes Steve feel odd to see her without her beads and gold fixings. 

She’s also nervous. Her hands clutched together and pressed to her lips, and she's pacing holes into the floor of the Tower’s lobby. 

She all but gasps when she sees the four of them come through the front doors. 

“Holy shit, he’s okay!” She sighs, closing her eyes tight. 

She approaches the soldier, paying no mind to the fact that he’s holding a semi-automatic weapon in his hands, and hugs him.His body is rigid and stiff against hers, and Steve can’t help but wince at what looks like the world’s most uncomfortable hug.

“Oh _no._ ” She whispers, pulling away and assessing the Soldier’s unmoving body. “He’s not—”

“He is.” Natasha supplies. “Can you fix him?”

“Is that why Tony called? I though he said Bucky found Peter.”

Sam sets his pack down carefully, “No, Peters okay. The _Soldier_ and some dude in red tights found him.” 

“Some dude in red tights?” She asks, unable to hide the twinge of interest from her voice. Her accent is thick around the words that follow, “Wade _fucking_ Wilson, is it?”

“How do you know him?” Steve jumps in, stepping forward a bit. Everyone settles their eyes on him, so he stutters a little. “He doesn’t seem like the lot Wakandan royalty would keep company with.”

“Not that I know him _well_. I’ve just heard of him. He’s a bit of a legend in some circles. Mercenary turned lab-rat turned superhero…well, kinda.” 

“In some circles?” Natasha asks. “No offense, Princess, but those aren’t exactly _your_ circles.”

“That is true.” She nods, glancing at the unnaturally still Soldier. 

Relentlessly, Natasha glares at her, awaiting an answer.

“I just find him interesting, I suppose. Deadpool isn’t your average superhero, and that makes him interesting in my book.” The group just stares at her, so she clarifies. “He’s unorthodox. No offense, but he isn’t—well, he isn’t _you guys_.” 

“He sure as hell isn’t us.” Natasha grumbles. “Fucker has _no_ boundaries.” 

Again, Natasha’s lewd words sends a blush up Steve’s neck. It’s not so much the profanity—Lord knows he’s heard every bad word in the book from Tony—it’s _Natasha_ saying it. The ever-calm, always composed, super-spy was always well-spoken and eloquent. He rarely heard an expletive cross her lips, yet she uses them consistently to describe this man.

“Deadpool? His name is Deadpool?” Sam asks.

“Yes.” Shuri replies, “I take it you all don’t know him well yet, do you?”

_Yet._ The word sets a little spasm of dread in his gut. Peter has taken quite a liking to the man—maybe deep in the Soldier’s subconscious, Bucky has, too.

 

***

 

Peter is in an examination room, in the midst of a swarm of Stark Industries-employed doctors, each doing their best to assess all the damage done to his body. Doing their best, that is, around an extremely territorial Wade Wilson.

Pepper should arrive any minute. She’d been in Philadelphia when he’d told her he’d found Peter. She dropped everything and started for New York. 

Tony is stood behind the glass of a one-way window into the exam room. Nervous energy bounces through him, but he’s unable to pinpoint exactly which feelings it consists of. Joy, undoubtedly, reigns supreme as his boy isn’t missing anymore; he’s just in front of him, albeit a slab of glass between them. 

Little bursts of fear pop up sporadically, as the doctors find more and more badly healed fractures, broken bones, and infected wounds. They fizzle away as he remembers that he’s _here_ now, and his injuries will be treated by the best of the best.

Weariness also plagues him, coming in the form of chills echoing right down his spine every time he glances at Wade. 

When he’d realized that Wilson had been partially responsible for saving Peter, he expected to end the day a few hundred-thousand dollars poorer, but with Wilson in a cab back to whatever hell-hole he crawled out of.Needless to say, that didn’t happen.

Wilson had his mask on when Tony told him to name his price—he still has it on, bouncing around the nurses but never leaving Peter’s side— but his features grew disappointed. Even through red leather, Tony could see it. He didn’t want anything from Tony—from anyone. He was just grateful to bring Peter home safely. 

Tony didn’t have time to be touched or amazed by this uncharacteristic act of grace, because Wade _immediately_ returned to being himself—annoying and destructive. The man _refuses_ to leave Peters side, which Peter wholeheartedly enforces, clinging to him like his last breath. They don’t seem to get further apart then a few feet, and it almost makes Tony sick to his stomach.

Is that a _romantic_ relationship? Not that he sees anything wrong with his son being attracted to men—lord knows if he _did_ he wouldn’t be able to keep the hundred-year-old G.I. Joes around—but did it really need to be _that_ man? Of all the men in the world—all of them—Peter had to take up with the one of the _few_ Tony didn’t like?

Pepper arrives just in time to cut off his thoughts. She rushes through the door, a flash of blond hair and red lipstick before crashing into his body, engulfing him in a hug.

“Oh, my God, Tony,” she murmurs into his neck, “Is he alright? Is he hurt?” 

“No, no, he’s fine, honey.” 

“Thank god.” she whispers, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I want to see him.”

“You should know—”

“He doesn’t look so good does he?” She asks, her eyes filling with sadness. “I mean, I know he’s fine, but he’s sick still? They must have hurt him—”

“Honey, he’s _fine_.” Tony reassures her and gestures to the glass, and her eyes follow. “He looks a little ghostly, but he’s fine. You just need to know—he’s picked up a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. A friend I happen to fucking hate, but a friend nonetheless.”

“ _Tony,”_

“I…” he trails off. “I don’t know the _nature_ of their relationship, but one can draw conclusions based on their…continuous proximity.”

“Continuous proximity?”

“Have you heard of Wade Wilson?”

“No.”

“Good, because he’s a little _shit_. I think he and Peter are an item of sorts.”

“An _item_? Tony, what are you—”

Peter lets out a cry—a _loud_ cry—that makes Tony’s stomach drop to his ankles. Through the glass, he and Pepper watch as Peter clutches his side, where nurse had just nicked him with something. 

“Holy shit, fucking _warn_ him next time, could you?” Wade yells, lacing his fingers in Peter’s overgrown hair. He glances up at the window he and Pepper are behind and glares directly at him. “The fuck kinda’ medical team you got up here, Stark? Do they just stab all of thier patients?”

The nurse apologizes profusely, before quickly being dismissed by the lead doctor. Tony can’t help but side-eye her as she sheepishly exits past him and Pepper. 

“Please don’t yell at her,” Peter asks, _entirely_ too late to have any impact, but Wade nods and agrees that he wont yell at her, no matter _how_ inept she was at her job. The sedatives must be kicking in now, because his eyes go slack and his words slur. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” Wade reassures. “I’m not going anywhere, Pete.” 

Tony inhales sharply. “That—see that can’t be good for him, Pepper. He’s so attached to him. What’s going to happen when he gets bored and disappears on him?”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Pepper says quietly, and looks up at Tony with love in her eyes. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Not _now_ , he wont; but eventually he will,” Tony shakes his head. “He _will_ , and it’ll tear that poor kid apart.”

“And your personal feelings against Wade have nothing to do with that prediction?” She says, refocusing her attention to Peter. He’s falling asleep, and Wade is brushing his thumb over his forehead.

“Well I’m not entirely unbiased.” Tony admits. “Listen, you don’t know him, you don’t know his type. He’s around for a spell, and when he gets what he wants, he dips.”

“Is this coming from experience with him?”

Tony scoffs. “No. No I haven’t dealt badly with him, but Nat has. And you know, you’ve got to fuck up pretty bad for her to want you dead.” 

“Well Peter isn’t Natasha, Tony.” She says carefully. “I think we both know how she is. Maybe she left him no choice but to cross her.” 

He shifts at the thought. Tony didn’t think have to think twice about Pepper’s words. Nat is a handful, and its always her way or the highway; and Wade has never seemed like the type to take orders.

“Still.” He scoffs. “That doesn’t seem off to you?”

“It seems to me like he’s the only thing holding Pete together right now.” Pepper says gently. “Don’t put yourself in the middle of it, Tony. I swear to god, if you mess this up for him—he won’t forgive you.”

“Even if it saves him more pain down the line?”

“It’s not your choice to make.” She presses. “Tell me you won’t interfere.” 

He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes settle on her. Her eyes are wrinkled up, scowling at him, and he can’t help the smile that slips onto his face. “I’ll try.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to go ahead with the Deadpool/Peter Parker pairing in this second half. I know lots of people find the pairing problematic, as the MCU Peter is really young compared to Wade. 
> 
> Keep in mind this fic is set further ahead in time than the movies, and Peter is in his early twenties here. Wade is in his mid-to-late twenties. 
> 
> I'm definitely imagining the personalities of Tom Holland's Spiderman and Ryan Reynold's Deadpool as I write, just because I'm a big fan of the movies and find it difficult to write without muses to imagine. I would never write intentionally anything that could be misconstrued!
> 
> This half if the fic will have lots of shift in POVs, we'll predominantly see still Steve and Bucky like before, but also Tony, Wade, Peter, and maybe even some Natasha in the future. 
> 
> I haven't done it in this chapter because I personally don't like seeing the tags above each section of text, but if you'd prefer to have a tag above each selection where the speaker/perspective changes, let me know in the comments!


	12. one in the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuri takes a look at Bucky and makes a startling discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter back to back to apologize for being inactive for so long. <3 
> 
> xx

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Time is moving too fast for Steve to make sense of anything. A few hours ago he had no idea where his missing friends were, or if they were even still alive. He had been in the gym, laying into yet another fresh boxing bag when Stark ordered everyone to suit up. 

Now, he’s standing in the medical bay with Shuri beside him, glaring through the one-way glass into an examination room. Buck is sitting on the exam table, his posture perfectly straight, his eyes trained on the doctor in front of him. _The Soldier,_ he corrects his thoughts, _that’s the Soldier, not Buck._

“Unclench, Captain.” Shuri whispers, nudging his elbow. 

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes quietly, but keeps his arms crossed sternly across his chest. For how often he finds himself around them now, Steve is always respectful around dignitaries, but in this moment the propriety he typically holds himself to is nowhere to be found. 

The doctor slips out of the exam room and joins them, “He’s yours now, Your Highness. You have my entire team at your disposal. I’ll be with Mr. Parker if you need me.” 

Shuri nods, and heads into the room. Steve follows close behind. 

The Soldier is still sitting perfectly still, his hands settled palm-up on his lap, his ankles hooked together. He looks up at the pair, and a glint of something curious passes through his eyes. He doesn’t speak, but his expression’s significance is endless; it says more than words ever could. _Exhausted, yet curious. Hurting, but his mission completed. Confused, but interested._

“I am not going to hurt you.” Shuri says quietly, fiddling with her equipment. “I have a few questions for you, then I am going to run some tests. Is that alright?”

“Yes.” He says simply. _Efficiently_. After a moment, his gaze lingers on Steve.

“Captain Rogers won’t hurt you either. He’s here to help.” Shuri supplies gently, and turns around with a few small metal disks in her palm. 

A hint of a smile twitches on the corner of his lips. It makes Steve grit his teeth. 

“These are going to help me confirm the authenticity of your responses.They adhere to your temples, your chest, and your wrists. May I place them there?”

He nods, pushes his metal hand through his hair to get it out of his face, and yanks his dirty black shirt off.

Both Shuri and Steve stare at his chest. It’s covered with new scars that Steve had never seen. 

Shuri clears her throat and steps forward, pressing the small pieces of silver against his rough skin. They seem to stick easily, Steve notices, and they blink red a few times before turning a light blue when she releases them. 

Once they’re all adhered, she steps back. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., I’d like you to cease recording for a few moments, please.”

“My apologies Princess Shuri, but Mr. Stark has required that I keep my surveillance features active in every room that Sergeant Barnes is in.” 

_Active surveillance?_ Steve thinks to himself that _maybe_ Tony’s becoming a little too interested in the Soldier.

“I see.” She nods. “Well then, are you ready to begin?”

He nods again.

Shuri settles down in the chair beside the exam table, “Good. What is your name?” 

He takes a deep breath and lets his eyes shut for a moment. “James Buchanan Barnes.” He looks up at Steve and then says, “Bucky.”

The lights on the sensors glow green, indicating a true answer.

Shuri’s expression shifts slightly, but she continues,“What year were you born?” 

“Nineteen-seventeen.” 

“And your parent’s names?” 

After a beat, he blinks. “George and Winnifred Barnes.” 

“Do you know Mr. Rogers here?” 

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat. _Please say yes,_ he thinks, then immediately wonders if that would even be a good thing.

“I do.” He shifts his eyes to Steve. “Very well.” 

Steve didn’t want to know what that meant, the Soldier knowing him _very well_ , but he can’t help but blush at the thought that maybe he knew Bucky had explored every inch of him in the last few months.

“Are you aware of your past? With HYDRA?”

“I am.” 

“Do you remember being triggered and ordered by F.R.I.D.A.Y. to complete a rescue mission?” 

“Yes.” 

“At any point on said mission, were you aware of an alternate party in your conscious?” 

He pauses, blinking up at Shuri. “At the beginning.” 

“And now?”

“I…I haven’t heard him in a while.”

Steve swallows. _What if Bucky had stopped fighting—what if he was gone?_

“What did he sound like?”

“Me.”

Shuri nods. “Did you feel different when the voice spoke to you? Did anything change?”

He blinks slowly for a moment, then looks up at Steve again. “I guess that’s when I started to remember things more clearly.”

“Like what?”

“Like him.” He says, his eyes still trained on Steve. “And you, I remember you. Not well, but somewhat.” 

Shuri gazes down at his hands. “Are there any other changes in your memory? Are you forgetting?”

“No.” 

The discs turn red.

“James, it’s important that you be truthful with me. I only want to help you.” She says, glancing between his eyes and his hands.

He nods, and follows her gaze. Steve does too, and notices it—he hadn’t at first, but he does now. It’s not all that uncommon for someone to sit like that, but it _is_ uncommon to have them stay so _eerily_ still for a half hour straight. Steve had chocked it up to the Soldier’s stiff mannerisms, but his ankles have unhooked and hooked a few times in the last few minutes. His hands haven’t moved an inch.

“Yes.” he corrects himself, and looks back up at Shuri.

Her eyes are still at his hands. “James. Close your hands into fists for me, please?”

After a long few seconds, the metal one closes, but the flesh one stays open. He tries, but his fingers only twitch lightly. Shuri immediately darts to her feet “F.R.I.D.A.Y., alert Mr. Banner that I need his assistance now, please. Tell him to hurry.”

Steve watches as she begins unpacking more equipment—hastily— her hands trembling ever so slightly as she does. Steve approaches her. Forgoing the appropriate greetings, he asks,“Shuri, what’s going on?”

“I think something is happening in his head.” She says, pulling out a small metal device. “He may be re-writing his memories— _merging_ his memories as the soldier with his memories as himself. I need to stop it before he writes over any of his basic human drives; he could asphyxiate because he doesn’t remember how to take breaths.”

 

***

 

Steve hasn’t moved in an hour. His joints have been locked in place so long that they sing out in pain, but he doesn’t move. Shuri and Banner had ordered him out for them to begin their procedure. It wasn’t going to be invasive, but he was a distraction nonetheless. 

So he found himself behind the one-way glass again, rooted in his spot. 

Shuri and Banner flutter around Bucky’s body. They’d put him under anesthesia, and begun their work about an hour ago. Shuri is using all sorts of machines he didn’t understand, machines that Steve is pretty sure Banner doesn’t completely understand, either. 

Streams of blue and gold electromagnetic energy spin out from one of them, seemingly going _through_ Bucky’s temples.Both doctors have a small holographic screen in front of them, and seem to be separating lines of code.

After a moment, Shuri powers down her hologram, and walks over to the door. Steve doesn’t look away from Bucky, even though he sees Shuri join him. 

“I want you to know, first and foremost, that he’s still the Bucky you know and love—Steve, _Bucky_ hasn’t changed at all—”

“But?” Steve cuts her off. He mentally chastises himself for being so crass with a princess, but he can’t find the patience to use his manners.

She takes a deep breath. “There isn’t a clean, divisive line between Bucky’s consciousness and the Soldier’s.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asks, but he knows. _He just knows. The Soldier can’t be shut off anymore_.

“It means a lot of things, Steve. It means that I was wrong about him, and the paths I made in his mind are gone—it means that he won’t be able to repress the triggering memories anymore—”

“Is he back then? Is that Bucky in there, or is that the Soldier?” Steve asks, through gritted teeth.

She sighs again. “Steve, I was _wrong_. There is no _Soldier_ anymore—there never was.”

He’s quiet for a moment, unable to find words. Thankfully, she elaborates.

“It’s James—its been James all along. A brainwashed and broken version of him, but still _him_. The Soldier isn’t a different entity—it’s what’s left of him when they strip away his memories.

_“_ The codewords don’t trigger someone inside him, they repress everything that gives him autonomy—his personality, his thoughts, his emotions. _That’s_ why he recognized you on the bridge and the helicarrier.All of his oldest and strongest memories involve you. You broke through that repression…”

She continues speaking, but Steve doesn’t hear her anymore. He can’t hear anything over his blood surging through his body rapidly. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every single one of his bodily functions. Every part of his skin that his clothes cover feels hot, itchy and constricted, the air in his lungs feels like water; yet he can’t bring himself to move, to speak, or to think about anything besides the revelation that his best friend, deep down, was capable of being a ruthless killer.

“Steve? Say something, buddy.” Shuri says, resting her hand on his shoulder.

He flinches, an overwhelming feeling of disgust covering over him. “So Bucky really did all those horrible things? All those cases of torture— that was him?”

Her eyes flutter, confusion staining her delicate features, “Not exactly; it was a part of him—a very small part of him. Since HYDRA hasn’t had him for over two years now—whatever maintenance they did to keep the reprogramming in check has failed to take place—so his brain is merging his memories and the memories from his time as the Soldier.

“Think of it as a computer with an external hard-drive. Bucky is the CPU, and a small amount of his files are isolated and copied to the hard-drive—the Soldier. Every time HYDRA needs a job done, they use the files on the hard-drive instead of sifting through the CPU. Every time they finish a job, they saved the changes to the hard-drive. ” She says, then frowns, running her hand over her forehead. “Not that you understood _any_ of that.” 

“I did.” He nods, “But the files on the drive came _from Bucky_ , didn’t they?”

After a beat, almost as if weighing the pros and cons of answering truthfully, she nods.

He inhales sharply. “You said you were worried about him re-writing his instincts—is that still a possibility?”

“It doesn’t seem so.” She shakes her head and glances through the glass. “He seems to be functioning fine, physically. I will continue to monitor him well through into tomorrow.”

“Good.” Steve nods.

“Will you be alright, Steve?”

“ _Me_?”

“It’s a lot to take in—for both of you.” She says quietly. “He’s going to wake up with access to all of his memories— he’ll remember doing things he hadn’t even known he’d done. He won’t be able to get through it alone.”

He inhales sharply, and looks down at the princess. She has hope in her eyes, hope that this isn’t too big of a strain for his grandiose sense of morality—that he’ll be able to see the man in there on that table as his old friend, not as an evil, bloodthirsty murderer. 

The way his skin crawls makes him realize; her hope in him is misplaced. 


	13. fallout 2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this a really long chapter, but I cut out a lot of the nonessential stuff. If you're liking this fic, I'd love your feedback in the comments! I love hearing from you all!
> 
> This is just a little angst to tide you over, until the FEELS come along in chapter fourteen. (Notice feels in shoutcaps. It's going to get serious, lol!)
> 
> (WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of or references to sexual assault.)
> 
> xx

When Bucky wakes up, it takes him much longer than usual to make sense of _anything_. Are his eyes open? Are they still shut? Is it dark out—is it nighttime? _Where is he?_ Small, familiar sounds drift into his consciousness: the faint beeping of a heart monitor, the incessant _drip-drip-drip_ of an intravenous line, the soft rustle of stiff, sterile hospital sheets. 

His eyes flip open, and sure enough, he’s restrained to some sort of hospital bed. 

The room is dark, aside from light coming through the wall of glass windows facing midtown. _The Tower,_ he realizes. Looking down at his hands, he begins assessing any damages; his limbs respond quickly, his eyes focus on the dresser in the corner of the room There’s a bouquet of white flowers in a vase settled at the center of it.

Then, almost overwhelmingly quickly, his head is bombarded by images and sounds— _memories_.

A man; his face is scarred over, angry red slices on his cheeks are dripping blood, and he’s yelling something. _‘Get out!’_ That’s what he’s saying. A bullet pierces through the man’s side, leaving a hole there that Buck can see straight through. He doesn’t flinch—he just keeps yelling _‘Get out!’_

Then, the memory deepens, and Buck _feels_ it. The heft of something in his arm—a person, he realizes—as he slings them over his shoulder and starts running away from the man in the red suit. _Wade,_ he remembers. _Wade Wilson._

And the man on his shoulder— _Peter._

Immediately, he sits straight up in the bed, and gasps. His voice is dry and broken as he speaks, but he forces sound out a few times before it comes out cohesively, “F.R.I.D.A.Y., _Fri_ ,”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.” The AI replies quietly.

“Where’s Peter? Is he alright? Is he safe?”

“Mr. Parker is currently asleep in his room, with Mr. Wilson. Would you like me to ring for him?”

“No,” He whispers, _He’s alright—he made it. He’s safe._

He relaxes against the pillows and shuts his eyes. His throat is dry and scratchy when he swallows, but he immediately sits up again, violently. 

“ _Steve_ —F.R.I.D.A.Y., where is Steve?”

“I’m right here, Buck.” A sleepy voice croaks, coming from off to his side.

Behind the array of monitors and equipment, Steve is curled up in a recliner. His hair is messy, his beard longer than Bucky thinks he’s ever seen it. He stretches and stands, making his way to the bedside. He’s still wearing his suit—just missing all of his weapons. 

“How’re you feeling?” He whispers, running his fingers over Buck’s hand.

“Good.” Buck replies, letting his head settle back against the pillows.

For once, there is no fire to put out, no one to save, _no mission to complete_. He can just lay back for a moment and enjoy Steve’s fingertips tracing over his forearm. 

“Do you remember what happened earlier?” Steve asks gently.

_Oh, no._ Bucky thinks for a moment, but is unable to retrieve the memory. _What had happened?_ He remembers Wade—Wade and Tony had bickered, much like he’d expected they would—and he remembers the ride back to the Tower. It’s foggy, but he remembers. Everyone seemed on edge. _Why were they so on edge?_

He remembers…restraints. Not _bad_ restraints—nothing like Zola or Pierce or any of the sick fucks that had owned him in between; these restraints were voluntary. He’d _asked_ to be held back. _He didn’t want to hurt anyone._

_He remembers Shuri._ She looked different than the last time he’s seen her. Her hair was long—braids—he remembers the soft _swish_ sound they made against her clothes, and the way they tickled when she got close enough to examine him.

“Shuri?” He asks vaguely.

“Yeah, Shuri.” Steve whispers. 

_There’s something wrong,_ and Buck can feel it. Its dense and awkward in the air, and he wishes that for the life of him, Steve would just _spit it out already_. Buck is dreadfully impatient—if anyone, Steve should know this about him.

“You had us really scared for a minute there, Bucky—had _me_ really scared.” Steve says quietly. 

“Stevie,” Buck whispers, but Steve doesn’t look up to make eye contact, he just keeps swirling circles with his thumb on Buck’s hand. “What did she see?”

“She says she was wrong. You and the soldier aren’t two separate _things_ anymore—well, now she doesn’t think you ever were.” Steve says in a low voice. “Whatever they did to you created some sort of shortcut in your brain. It gave them access to just the primal parts of you, your physiological functions and skills, and held back your emotions and your conscience. That’s what the Soldier is—you.”

Bucky blinks up at Steve, who still wont look up at him. He’s scared—Buck can see it on his face—but theres a hint of something else in his gaze, something angry.

Shame creeps up his neck, because believe it or not, _he already knew._

It wasn’t that wild of a guess for him—he’d made the prediction ages ago. He’d heard it said to him multiple times when he was strapped to operating tables, he was ‘ _perfect’_ for their experiments. Trauma had made him vulnerable—doubly so than your average man—morally broken by loss and sacrifice, and most importantly, _he had always been a good shot._

With their makeshift serum pumped into him making him heal faster than he could get hurt, and their torture able to repress his humanity, they had turned him into the best goddamn weapon in their arsenal—theWinter Soldier. 

“Oh,” The sound comes from deep in his throat. _Steve,_ Steve is still here, waiting for him to respond. _What does he say to that?_ Steve’s hand is light against his arm, and Buck watches it run over the metal restraints attached to the bed. “Are—are you afraid of me now?”

“I don’t know, Buck.” He says quickly, and his hand retreats to his side. Bucky immediately misses his touch. “Shouldn’t I be?”

_‘Shouldn’t I be?’_ He must have given him a reason to be afraid then, didn’t he? Sam, Tony, _Nat_ —who did he hurt? Why was he still tied up?

“I’m sorry, Stevie.” Buck closes his eyes tightly, and wills himself to remember. “Did—did I hurt someone? _God_ , did I hurt Tony?”

“No,” Steve says, his voice sharp. Buck spies something tight and jealous in his eyes, but it flickers away just as quickly as it came. “No, you didn’t hurt anyone, Buck. You took Clint home to his family, and brought Peter back to Tony and Pepper.”

He sighs, and swallows. “Then why are you upset, Stevie?”

“Why aren’t _you_ , Buck?” Steve pushes away from the bedside, and smooths his hair back, taking a breath. “I don’t understand. How could you—any part of you—do all those dreadful things?”

Bucky swallows. _Oh. That’s why he’s upset._

“I’m sorry, Steve.” He says quietly.

“Never in a million years would I expect you _—you, Buck—_ to be capable of things so—so _gruesome._ If Shuri is right—if the Soldier is some primal part of you, deep _deep_ down, then all of that blood is on your hands, Buck.”

He’d known this; what Shuri discovered wasn’t a knew theory to him, but hearing it spelled out so neatly with such _contempt_ makes his stomach churn. Hearing it from _Steve_ leaves his lungs unable to expand, and frankly, he can’t help but feel he deserves it. 

Buck looks down at his hands. _How many people had he killed with them?_

“You knew.” Steve says with quiet realization. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“Not for certain.” Buck says, unable to meet his eyes. “Sometimes I heard them talking. Everything I’d been through made me a hell-of-a test subject.”

Steve scoffs, and looks away. It must sound like he’s laying there making excuses—Buck is _sure_ that’s what Steve is thinking—but it’s the truth.

“The war left me different—shell-shocked. Falling from that train—Steve, it was god-awful—I remember hitting the ground, I remember how it sounds to break every bone in your body all at once. I don’t know how long I spent in the snow bleeding out before someone found me. That kind of shit, back-to-back like that—it messes you up.”

“But _you_ , Buck?” He asks, his eyes glossing over. “I don’t believe that. The kid that left for the war—the kind of shit we’re talking about—its not something he would be capable of. Not _my_ guy from Brooklyn, no.”

“I guess that’s not _me_ anymore.” His voice is subdued, willing his expression to follow suit and stay collected. “They cut me up and stitched me back together again, _over and_ _over_ _again_. Used me to hurt people, wiped me clean and repeated. If that don’t change a person, I’m not sure what could.”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stands, regarding every inch of Buck’s face, before asking, “Why did you never tell me?”

“I never knew for sure.” 

“But you had your suspicions.”

“I did.” He whispers, “I was so afraid I’d hurt you, Steve—afraid I’d hurt _anyone._ I knew the Soldier was a part of me, some _dark_ _twisted_ , _fucked-up_ part of me, and I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Steve nods. He opens his mouth to say something, but looks down just before the wordscome out. “You know, I didn’t think there was anyone in this world that I could know better than you, Buck. I guess I was wrong.”

A punch to the gut. Bucky almost wheezes the word, “ _Steve—_ ”

Steve turns around, snatching a manila envelope from the chair he’d fallen asleep on. With a flick of his wrist, it lands on Bucky’s lap. 

“This—this is downright disgusting.” Steve whispers, yanking photos out. 

It’s a crime scene. One James remembers well. 

The details unfurl in his mind faster than he’d ever been able to remember before, filled with memories he is _certain_ he’d never been able to access to before. The mission was straight-forward: seventeen people total. Seven staff members, ten students. Yet he’d failed. He’d only managed sixteen confirmed kills.

Steve wasn’t a handler, though. He was quite the opposite. He didn’t care that he’d failed the mission, at all—the existence of the mission was his issue. The men he reported to that night and Steve couldn’t be any more different—except their anger. 

The palpable _rage_ is the only thing they have in common. His handlers had made their disappointment evident by jumper cables and drill-bits, but he finds himself _wishing_ for that over Steve’s. Steve’s came in angry glares that _promised_ he’d see justice served through to an end. 

“Kids, James!” Steve says, his voice angry now that Bucky hadn’t responded. 

Steve scoffs, and Bucky closes his eyes, unable to look up at him. 

Unable to see the pain, the hatred, the _disgust_ on his best guy’s face.

_That would be enough to kill him._

 

***

 

Tony doesn't ever announce his arrival. He doesn't  _do_  greetings; or so it seems to James, because he barrels into the hospital room without any introduction. He just jumps straight into conversation.

"I haven't gotten a chance to yell at you yet." He says, promptly stopping at Bucky's bedside and folding his arms across his chest. "What you did was reckless and  _stupid_  and I can't believed you'd risk your life like that without consulting us first. I would have went with you, _you insolent doof_ , and then my boy wouldn't be stuck with that  _leech_  of a human being on his side." 

Even with the weight of Steve's words lingering on his mind, Bucky can't help the little smile that touches his lips. 

"I missed you too, Tony." Buck murmurs.

Tony chews the inside of his lip for a second before looking down. "Thank you, James." When they meet eyes again, he adds, "I mean it. I owe you...everything."

"You don't owe me, Tony." 

"Yes, I do." Tony nods. "You brought my boy home, and that's worth everything."

"I'm just glad we got to him in time." 

The look on Tony's face clearly tells James that he's curious, and that he'll read into that some other time, because he's not done celebrating Peter's return yet. James smiles a small smile up at him.

"Where's your blonde?" Tony nods to the now-empty recliner. "I didn't think he could survive if he wasn't breathing the same air as you." 

"He, uh," Bucky glances down at the rumpled bedsheets. "He left, I guess."

Tony scoffs. "Left? Where'd he go? To bake your welcome home cake?"

"No, Tony." Buck says, his voice serious. "He found out some things about me, and it scared him off. I don't know where he went. I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to see me, though."

"What kind of things?"

" _Soldier_ things." 

Tony stiffens. "Like?"

"Shuri mapped out my brain again; she says that it's not me  _and_  the Soldier. I  _am_  the Soldier. That part of me isn't just something that came from re-wiring me to react to some magic words. It was always in me? I don't know, man,  _whatever_  it is, it's a part of me, and Steve is right, I did do all those horrible things —"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down." Tony says, coming closer. "That's wasn't you, James, that was what HYDRA turned you into."

"But —"

" _'But'_  shit." Tony interrupts. "That's bullshit, it's not fair to you  _at all_ , you had no choice but to do those things."

James swipes at his cheek, removing evidence of whatever dampness was there. "I guess."

"Now, what's Steve's deal?"

 

***

 

“Where is he?” Tony’s voice is angry and loud, coming from well down the hallway. “You’ve done it now, Rogers; you’ve fucking done it. WHERE IS HE?”

Steve rises slow.  _What the hell is it now?_ he thinks, and wrestles himself from his spot on the couch beneath all Wanda’s thick blankets.

The door doesn’t just open, no,it  _splinters_ under Tony’s hands. Slowly, Steve rises to his feet, and heads towards the man in the doorway.

Tony looks terrible. Insomnia had etched its way so deeply into his features, that Steve, and everyone else in the tower, had gotten used to it. The blotches and bags under his eyes aren’t what’s concerning Steve; its the hate in his face—the anger bubbling just under his skin, making his face and neck red. Rage swims in his eyes, transforming his normally calm, chocolatey irises into something impossibly  _darker_ , reminding Steve of the sea-slick boards of ships in the dead of night, coursed to start crashing into rocks the captain hadn’t known were there. Those eyes screamed, warning him of a danger so ferocious he could never anticipate it.

“What the hell Stark?” Steve murmurs, staring at the broken door. His voice is slow to catch up with the rest of his waking body and mind, groggy and thick.

“What the  _fuck_  is wrong with you?” Tony huffs, his chest heaving. “What the  _actual_   _fuck_  is wrong with you?”

“What are you on about now, Tony?”

“James.” He barks, as if it’s so obvious that taking time to clarify was a waste.

_Why the hell is everyone so concerned with him, suddenly?_ There it is again—jealousy stinging the corners of his eyes. His jaw is clamped down so tight it clicks. “What about him?”

“You know, I never pegged you for a pompous fucking jackass, Cap. Holier-than-thou type, yeah. The type to have a majorgod complex,  _yeah_. ” He says, encroaching into Steve’s space. “You have any idea what its like for everyone else in this building, huh? Having to curl up on themselves to make room for your ego? To tiptoe around your feelings?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Steve yells. Tony shoves at his chest, setting him back a few steps. Through still-gritted teeth, he barks, “Step  _back_ , Stark.”

“Or what? You gonna hit me? Again?”

“That’s enough—”

“No I’ll tell you what’s enough, Sparkles,  _enough_  is James Barnes throwing everything away for you. I don’t understand it—why do all the loyal people flock to you? Sam, Nat,  _James_. You’re the single most selfish person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“That’s real rich coming from you Stark, I’m selfish? Really—what the hell is this about?”

“So you find out that the Soldier is a part of him, and you berate him for it? Something completely out of his control?  _‘That’s not the kid you remember from Brooklyn’_? Fuck the kid from Brooklyn, Steve!” Tony yells, “He tells you that the war fucked with his head—that  _falling from that fucking train_  fucked with his head—and you tell him you’re disappointed?”

“So you’re okay with your brand-new best friend being a psycho-killer deep down inside? That kind of shit doesn’t scare you? When did you even start to give a shit about him? You wanted to kill him a few short months ago.”

“A psycho killer?” He laughs, but its fake and angry. “Yes it’s batshit crazy, but it’s not like I have a choice in the matter, do I? Neither do you, you  _dumb_  son of a bitch.”

“I have no choice?” Steve scoffs. “Of course I have a choice! and I choose to get my fucking friend back.  _My_ friend, the one I lost all those years ago—not what they turned him into.”

“That’s not him anymore!” Tony yells, frustration set in the lines of his face. “That isn’t him, you selfish  _fuck_. That Bucky is  _gone_ —and if you know what he went through and still can’t accept that he’s changed, then what kind of friend are you?”

“Well fuck me, I just can’t seem to come to terms with my best guy, the one person I’d lay my goddamn life down for in a heartbeat—my fucking  _lover_ —being able to slit my throat in my sleep, without a drop of remorse.” Steve yells. “How the fuck can  _you?_  He’s a machine now—you see the way he operates, it’s unsettling— everything about it makes my fucking skin crawl. That’s not someone I can ever trust.”

Immediately he regrets it. The words leave a patch of heat in his chest, lingering just over his heart. Blood rushes through him so fast he can hear the vague  _thump-thump, thump-thump_  in his ears.

Tony opened his mouth to say something and shuts it immediately. After a moment, he looks down at his hands.

“God, that’s dark, Steve. That’s fucked up, coming from you.”His voice breaks, his eyes filling with tears. “Then I should have let him, shouldn’t I?—it would probably have been easier for him that way. Then he wouldn’t have to hear you say some shit like  _that_ —”

Steve rolls his eyes and cuts him off, desperately trying to keep a lid on his temper. “Tony, what the hell are you talking about?”

“He came to me—the night after he hurt Natasha. He was going to kill himself.”

Steve’s heart stops.

Literally  _stops._  The overwhelming sound of his blood rushing through him completely ceases, his lungs refuse to take in or expel. After a moment it rushes in, filling his chest with the ice-cold air, and stinging all the way down.

“ _What_?”

Tony does that long annoyed inhale he does when he doesn’t want to admit somethings getting under his skin. “He wanted me to do it. He said I  _deserved_  to be the one to do it. Steve, if I didn’t stop him, he would have jumped off a balcony, or launched himself into the fucking sun— _”_

“Tony.” Steve growls, disbelief thick in his tone, “If you’re lying, I swear to fucking—”

“No,  _I_  swear to  _fucking_  god, Rogers,” Tony cuts him off, coming closer, just a step away from his face now, “You know what he said to me? He said it was for the best, because you’d be better off without him, you and Nat. He thinks he’s not good enough—thinks that you deserve more—and when he  _confided_ in you, you told him that you would  _never_  trust him.”

“No he  _couldn’t_ —”

Tony looks like the thought that James might still want to harm himself just crosses his mind, so he calls out, “F.R.I.D.A.Y., put Sergeant Barnes under twenty-four hour wellness monitoring. Let me know if he leaves his recovery room.”

Steve, clearly still in shock, doesn’t realize his voice is trembling until he hears himself speak. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he knew you’d take it to heart. He didn’t want you to blame yourself. And now,” Tony huffs, a look of disgust replacing his anger, “You’ve just ripped him apart. The only thing he cared about—only thing he had left.”

Is slowly sinks in, and the silence that grows between them deafens Steve. He laces his hands through his hair and grumbles to himself.  _What a fucking idiot_   _he was_. He’d been so consumed with wanting him, the  _old_  him, that he hadn’t stepped back to look at the bigger picture. He didn’t even stop to think about how Buck must feel about  _himself_.

Anger blooms in Steven’s chest like he’s never felt before. “Fucking hell—” He swings his foot into the coffee table so hard it flies a few feet and smacks into the wall, breaking it’s legs off and splintering the top.

Slowly, he sinks to the floor, his back against the sofa. “He told you I said all that? Or is F.R.I.D.A.Y. still your personal surveillance toy?”

Tony scoffs, looking down at Steve. “No, he didn’t. He told me that he and the Soldier are integrated, and that it scared you. He wanted me to talk to you—to convince you that he was still himself. He even wants me to de-weaponize his arm. F.R.I.D.A.Y. supplied the rest.”

Steve closes his eyes tight, and lets a heavy breath out. “I over-reacted. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“Yeah,  _no shit._ ”

After a moment, Tony stalks to the end table and drags it in front of Steve, settling down on it gently.Steve slowly runs his eyes up his frame, settling on Tony’s now-calming eyes.

“Well, you’ve got to do something about it, Steve.” He sighs. “How are you going to fix it?”

“He’s had the soldier in him all this time, and he hasn’t hurt me once—hasn’t hurt anyone, besides Nat, and she pushed him to it.” Steve continues murmuring to himself. “He wanted to kill himself. He said I’d be better off without him? He said that?”

“Hey, Rogers.” Tony snaps, veering Steve’s attention back to him. “By all means, beat yourself up about it later, right now we’ve got to fix this.”

Steve is an idiot, sure, he knows that now. What he doesn’t know is why Tony is suddenly invested in Bucky’s wellbeing. Steve was good at reading people’s intentions, and although Tony doesn’t emanate any malice, he can’t pinpoint what it is he does.

“ _Why_ , Tony?” Steve asks, furrowing his eyebrows, “Why do you care about him so much?”

Tony curses under his breath and leans back, stretching his feet out. “You don’t get to know that.”

Steve just blinks. After a moment, jealousy rears its ugly head again, “And James does?”

“Yes Steve, James does.” His voice is rough, and he’s looking just everywhere besides Steve’s face. “You know what, fuck it. Deal with this yourself then.”

He rises to his feet. “Tony,” Steve reaches out to grab his arm, but he flinches, yanking it away.

“No—just  _don’t fuck it up_  anymore than you already have.” Tony calls, “He needs someone by his side right now. I can help him, but he needs you.”

Just like that he hops over the bottom third of the splintered door, calling out and asking F.R.I.D.A.Y. to send someone up to replace it, before disappearing in the elevator.

 

*** 

 

 


	14. reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLOOOOO!
> 
> So, a few things:
> 
> I've been on vacation for the last ten days, and trusted a friend of mine to beta chapter 13 for me, so that I would be able to post it TODAY when I got back home.
> 
> Alas, she managed to misunderstand me, and an unfinished version of chapter 13 went live last week, and I was completely unaware! There are a few little holes in there (Like Bucky suddenly being out of the hospital bay and having his own apartment in the tower) that I'll do my best to clarify in the next few chapters, but since so many people have seen it, I've decided to leave it up. 
> 
> Needless to say that friend is off editing duty until further notice, lol! (soz bby!) 
> 
> Here's the next chapter, and the beginning of the domestic Stucky fluff you've all been waiting for!
> 
> xx

 

 

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, _one more time_ , for clarity’s sake.

Peter shifts uncomfortably in the seat across from him. The boy is looking better, at least Bucky thinks so. He can’t see any of Peter’s bones today, which is one hell of an improvement in his book. He doesn’t look exhausted either, which tells Buck that even with reoccurring nightmares, he’s able to sleep at least a little.

“There are more of us, Bucky.” He says quietly, looking down at his hands in his lap.“Clint and I got out because we had _you_ to save us. Who’s going to save all those other people?”

Bucky nods. “And Wade? What does he say?”

“I haven’t told him.”

Bucky leans back in his seat. “Because?”

“He thinks Freeman is better off dead.”

Being able to remember the condition they hadfound Peter and Clinton in, Bucky finds himself sharing that sentiment. “I might have to agree with that—”

“ _Bucky._ ” Peter interrupts, “What happens to all those people he has locked up? He’s the only way we find them.”

“Alright kid. I’ll look into it.” Bucky says. His heart warms a little at the glint of hope in Peter’s eyes.

Heavy knocks—pounding really—sound on the door, and Bucky rises to his feet. “Did you tell your keepers where you were running off to? It’s got to be either Tony or Wade coming to find you.”

“Wade went home to change, and I told Tony I’d be coming to see you.” 

Bucky furrows his brow, as he often finds himself doing these days, but swings open the door anyway. Anyone this far up in the Tower has been vetted and cleared to be here. 

On the other side of the open doorway, Natasha is slouched against the doorframe, more casually dressed than he thinks he's ever seen her. She’s wearing civvies, although Bucky would hardly call them _normal_ clothes. She’s in an all-black ensemble: a long-sleeved black shirt, black jeans, and black running shoes. Oddly enough, Bucky’s eyes still settle on the little outline of a knife strapped to her ankle beneath the denim. _Old habits die hard._

She looks at him briefly before nodding at Peter. “Okay, out kid. I’ve gotta talk to Barnes.” 

“Auntie Nat—”

“I mean it Pete. Out.” She snaps, and Peter visibly finches.

“It’s okay, Peter. I’ll come visit you later and we can finish talking.” Bucky nods at the boy. 

“Yeah, okay.” Peter says, slowly rising to his feet. He keeps his gaze down as he brushes past them and starts down the hall.

“What going on?” Buck asks, as Natasha starts into the room.

She looks down at her feet and purses her lips. “Clint. He can hear.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at her and repeats, “He can hear?”

She finally looks at him. Her eyes are irritated and red—dare he say from _crying_ —and her expression guarded. “Clint is deaf. _Was_ deaf.”

Bucky nods. 

“Whatever they did to him, it gave him his hearing back.” 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.”

“It’s not.”

Bucky comes closer, and sets his flesh hand on her shoulder. “Okay, you’ve got to break it down for me, Natalia. I’m confused.”

“He’s—he’s been deaf since he was a _kid_ , James. I don’t know, I guess when he was with you, he was so hopped up on adrenaline that it wasn’t a problem, but now—”

“It’s too much.” Bucky says quietly. More than most people, he knows what it’s like to be overwhelmed like that.

“He’s paranoid. Every sound he hears is strange and loud. He can’t even sleep—every little noise is keeping him awake. It’s driving him crazy.”

“You went to see him?”

“And he heard me coming _long_ before he saw me.” She nods.

“And Laura?” 

“She left the house. Every move she makes is triggering him.” 

“Well you’ve got to bring him here; we’ve got to let Bruce run some tests and figure out how we can help him.”

Natasha shifts uncomfortably and chews on her lip.

Bucky freezes, caught off guard by her silence. The woman always had something to say. Something quick or snarky, but always something _._ “What is it?”

“I’ve never seen him like this, James.” She says, and legitimate fear coats her words. 

“Is he…violent?” 

She purses her lips, then nods. 

“Oh, boy.” he huffs, but Natasha cuts him off.

“He’s delirious. I _know_ him, and I know he wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally—”

“Nat, you don’t have to explain anymore.” He whispers, then after a beat, laughs,“I _get_ it.” 

“I need to ask you something—and I don’t want you to lie to me, either. I want a straight answer, yes or no.” She says, and takes a breath. “When you found him…was he in bad shape?”

Bucky freezes, trying to recall the memory. At first, nothing comes up besides a strange _heavy_ feeling. After a moment, he remembers.A large metal capsule of some sort. Men in white plastic jumpsuits and protective ear-wear. A red sign that read _‘WARNING: High frequencies in use. Hearing protection equipment required past this point.’_

They’d found Peter a few minutes before, so the way they found Clint was mild compared to _that;_ but recalling the memory is still gruesome. He was strapped to a board in the metal cylinder, and had blood dripping from his nose and ears.

He’s brought back to the present by Natasha repeating her question. Tears undoubtedly fill her eyes, although they refuse to fall. “ _James_. Was he in bad shape?” 

“Yes.” he finally admits. “Yes, he was.”

 

***

 

Bucky had never seen Natasha so flustered. She held herself together for a while after Peter left, but then she’d broken down. She was physically shaking, rattled by Clint’s condition. Bucky made several attempts to calm her down; everything from deep breathing to counting backwards, but she looked at him as if he were some dirty hippie.

Instead, he finally suggested that they spar, and her face lit up.Bucky noticed that Natasha’s combat style is different when she’s emotional. The way she fought was somehow _cleaner_ , more precise and direct. _Lethal_ , he thinks to himself, because she’d gotten very close to seriously hurting him quite a few times. James, of course, knew she needed him to take those chances.

Her knife work was impeccable; she wielded the blades with such ease and conviction that if he weren’t so mesmerized, he’d be _very_ afraid.She moved unlike he had ever seen anyone do before; _well, except himself._

The way she moved her body was so nimble, but so _fierce_ that she had distracted him and managed to leave a slice on his cheek. _But she’d calmed down_ , and if that meant leaving bruises, stitches, and nicks all over him, well, Bucky was alright with that. Satisfied that she was no longer losing her marbles, they’d parted ways after the session; Natasha heading for the laboratories, and Bucky for his apartment.

Natasha would tell Tony and Bruce about Clint, and Bucky—well Bucky would wait to be filled in on whatever plan they come up with. 

In the meantime, he starts a case file on his rescue mission. Tony told him he didn’t need to finish it soon, but he can’t help the fear that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to remember the details. The papers sit unfinished on the table in front of him—he’d opted for pen and paper since he didn’t know how to use the computers in the tower.

_Hostage One was found stripped bare, restrained to an operating table. He presented clear signs of torture having occurred within a few hours to being found. Hostage One was found heavily sedated, substance unknown._

And immediately, that’s enough of _that._ Bucky lets out a heavy sigh. It takes a whole lot of willpower to go through something like that— _he would know_ —but how Peter got through it and is able to even _smile_ right now is beyond him. Sometimes he catches him staring off and regressing into bad memories, but for the most part, he’s on his way to being, well, _himself_ again.

His eyes drift up to the ceiling, where all of Stark’s glass flight tunnels merge into a ten foot tall, building-wide level. His new apartment spans the entire floor just below it, with about fifteen feet separating his floor from the bottom of the tunnels. The glass of the tunnels is braced up with thin brackets of vibranium, but so high up from the floor, they look like threads of silk on the glass.

The apartment is beautiful, and he has both Stark and Wanda to thank for it. The style is a mix of both them—even not knowing Wanda all that well, he can tell—bare white walls, silver fixings, and splashes of a deep forest green throughout. 

A knock on the door startles him, drawing him back to his seat again. The door is made of a heavy, dark wood, and when knocked on, it makes a deep, hearty sound. Natasha must have figured out how to help Clinton. He shoots to his feet and makes for the door.

For the second time that day, James finds himself confused after opening a door. Earlier he’d expected Tony and had gotten Natasha. Now he’d expected Natasha and gotten Steve.

He’s standing in the center of the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest, staring down the hallway. Once he realized the door had opened, he returns his attention to Bucky. 

“Steve.” Bucky says automatically, and lets his hand drop down from holding the door. 

“How are you doing, Buck?” Steve rasps, his voice thick.

A knot of emotion sticks in Bucky’s throat, so he doesn’t say anything, he just nods. 

Almost instinctively, Steve’s hand shoots out to graze the cut on Bucky’s cheek. His eyebrows knot together, “What happened to your face?”

“Natasha.” He says quietly, “We trained earlier.” 

“Oh.” Steve says, looking away, a flash of annoyance on his face before returning his gaze. “I’ve been looking for you. I want to apologize.”

Bucky shifts, staring out at the blond. 

“I want you to know that I was wrong, and now I know that I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said the things I did.”

“Thank you?”

Steve narrows his eyes, “Listen, I made a mistake, and I’m trying to apologize for it okay?”

“I see.”

Steve scoffs, and leans back on his heels. “James, you are _the_ most important person in my life. I don’t understand how you can’t see that.”

Bucky’s so confused, he _almost_ cocks his head to the side.

“I’d take on anyone—anything for you. I felt like everyone was trying to _fix_ you, or _change_ you, and it—it just scared me. I didn’t want you to change. I didn’t want you to be different. I wanted my guy from Brooklyn so bad that I was too stubborn to see that you’re different now.” 

“Steve I don’t—”

“I’m sorry for the things I said, Bucky, believe me, I really am,” Steve says, taking a threatening step towards him, “but if you’re a fucking idiot for thinking that I’d be better off without you.”

James furrows his eyebrows, “What?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do without you; I’d be fucking _lost_. Buck, I’m sorry I made you feel like that, I never want you to feel like I don’t need you, _because I do._ ”

Oddly enough, Bucky frowns. Those words —clearly meant to comfort him —do nothing but make him feel worse.  _Tony told him._

He knows Steve well enough to know that he'd  _meant_ what he said before. He thought he was a monster. A senseless killer. Now that he's found out what he'd planned to do that night, he's —well, he's being  _Steve_ : ever-kind and never offending, and  trying to fix it. He swallows, and clicks his jaw shut, looking out at the other man.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Steve.” Bucky shakes his head, “Things would be shitty for a while, but you’d get over it. After a year or so, you would move on.”

“Shut up,”

“I’m serious,” Bucky shrugs, and diverts his eyes, unable to keep them on his. “Steve, you’d be better off—”

Steve shoves at Bucky’s shoulders, “Shut up!”

Bucky doesn’t budge, so Steve’s hands linger on his shoulders. Steve's eyes fill with tears, and slowly, his hands slide up his neck, and he presses his forehead against Buck's collar. 

“ _Stop_ ,” He whispers, “Please don’t. Don’t make me do this without you.” 

“It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky whispers back.

“Promise me.” Steve begs. Bucky sniffs, and finally lifts his hands to embrace Steve. Steve doesn’t miss a beat though, he wraps his arms around Buck tightly and sobs into his neck. “I’m sorry, _Buck,_ I'm so sorry.”

Slowly, Bucky allows himself to be held, and returns the embrace. “I’m sorry, too, Steve.” 

That just makes Steve sob again, and hold him even tighter.


	15. poison arrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double uploads, woop woop!
> 
> xx

 

When Bruce and Tony get together, time tends to fly by. 

The laboratory is always entirely quiet, save the tiny clinks of whatever tech they’re working on. Every once in a while, one of them breaks that sacred silence, although only for a moment, and usually only to ask the other man’s opinion. _Should the vents be on the left or the right leg of the suit? Should the faceplate be a metal alloy or plexiglass?_

Today, the pair move fluidly around the room, working on Peter’s blood samples. Tony isn’t sure when they’d become pathologists, although the theory is easy enough for them to understand. Isolating the cultures was a little more difficult, and as a result of their valiant efforts, pipettes and vials litter every surface of the room.

After a solid couple hours of uninterrupted work, Tony breaks the silence, pointing at a vial on the top of the pile in front of him. “Did you run that sample through the centrifuge already?”

Bruce nods.

“Then why is it still in that pile?”

“I’m going to run it again.”

“Why?”

Bruce looks up from his work, for just a second—just long enough to say, “I’m pretty sure the test was a false positive. I need to run it again.”

Tony begins to ask what the positive test was for, but the lab doors whizz open, redirecting his attention. Peter is standing in the doorway, with his hands in his sweatshirt’s pocket. 

“Hey, hows it going kid?” Tony approaches him. “You’re looking better.” When Tony clasps his hand on the boy's shoulders, he doesn't stagger at all.  _That's probably a good sign._

“Feeling better, too.” Peter smiles up at him. A warm fuzzy feeling spreads in Tony’s belly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

“Sure, what’s on your mind?” 

Tony makes his way over to his work again, but when Peter doesn’t answer immediately, Tony looks up at him.The boy nods over at Bruce, who honestly probably didn’t even notice him walk in.

“Don’t worry about Banner, kid. He’s in another world. Look,” He says, and proceeds to wave his hands over his head and yell, “Hey _,_ Bruce-y boy! _Hey_!”

Either blatantly ignoring him, or having completely adapted to Tony’s sudden fits of yelling, Bruce doesn’t budge in the slightest. 

Tony huffs, “See. He’s extremely dedicated.” 

“Okay then.” Peter says, propping himself up against the counter. “I want to talk to you about Francis.”

Tony’s mouth goes dry, he immediately looks up at Peter, who doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. He’s just standing nonchalantly, with his hands still tucked in his pocket. “What about him?”

“Bucky and I want to find him.” 

“You—you want to _find_ him?” Tony stutters out. “Find him? And what the hell do you plan to do then?”

Before Peter can reply, F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts. They both look up at the ceiling at the sound of her incoming call alert.  “Boss, I’ve got Colonel Rhodes for you, calling from the War Machine.” 

“Hold that thought, kid, we’re not done talking about this.” Tony points at Peter then turns around to take the call on the main-screen, still mumbling to himself “I’m not just going to let you and Bucky do _more_ reckless shit…What’s going on Rhodey?”

Rhodey’s face-cam appears on the screen. “I found your delinquent son.”

Tony turns and glances at Peter. 

“The _other_ one.”The Colonel rolls his eyes. 

“Where are they?” Tony taps the screen, and a map comes up in the corner. He seems to be flying the suit back to New York.

“Toronto.” Rhodey says, “They didn’t want to scare anyone, they just didn’t want to be found for a while.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “So are you bringing them back with you?”

“I think we should let them be.” 

“ _What?_ ”

“They just want to be alone, Tony.” Rhodey quips. “Don’t you remember what it’s like to be young?”

“You’re supposed to be the stern parent. _‘Rule with an iron fist’_ and what-not. ” 

“I’m the fun uncle, you’re the stern parent.” Rhodey smiles, and hangs up.

Tony swipes the ended call screen off to the right, clearing the giant holographic screen. He curses something under his breath and passively touches his forehead.

After fiddling with the keys a bit, he turns back to Peter, “Alright, kid. Where were we?”

Peter presses his lips into a line. “We’ll make him take us to his other hostages.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Tony crosses his arms. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter, Bucky’s capable of it, but do you really think that having him torture Francis is a good idea?”

“As appealing as torturing him sounds, it would be in vain.” Peter shrugs, his eyes still locked on Tony's. “Wade says that Francis tested some version of a super-soldier serum on himself. It gave him the strength, but no regeneration. Shot all his nerve endings, too— so he can’t feel pain.” 

Tony blinks at the boy. “So you guys plan to hunt down a man who doesn’t want to be found, and then what? _If_ you find him, how do you plan to make him comply? He’s not just going to take you to his labs.” 

Peter narrows his eyes. “Well, we’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure it out? Peter, this guy isn’t just some thug—he’s HYDRA, he’s not just going to be hangin' out at a hot dog stand. It’s going to take months to find him.” 

“Not with Bucky” Peter shakes his head. “He thinks he can track him down pretty quickly.” 

_It took him months to find you the first time,_ Tony thinks to himself. The boy is going to send his blood pressure through the roof, if Vision taking random trips to Canada without telling anyone doesn't give him a stroke first.

“Has anyone told you about Clint?” 

Peter’s brows knit together, and he shakes his head. 

Concern thickens his features, and Tony can tell it’s genuine, so he continues. Hopefully hearing about Clint’s condition would shift his perspective.

“He’s delirious. Whatever tests Freeman ran on him gave him his hearing back. I don’t think he’s ever even been able to hear, so it’s overwhelming. It’s driving him insane.”

“I…didn’t know.” Peter says quietly. Tony almost feels bad for guilting him out of something he’s clearly serious about— _almost._

“He needs us to be here for him.” Tony says, and Peter nods.

“I understand.” Peter says quietly. “Freeman can wait.”

“Or,” Tony shrugs, returning to his work, “You could just let Wilson deal with him.”

Peter doesn’t respond immediately, so Tony looks up at him. Immediately, he wishes he could take those words back. The _hurt_ on Peter’s face makes his heart drop.

Peter inhales sharply and takes a step back, “You know I get that you don’t like him—and believe me I understand that you probably have your reasons—but Wade means a lot to me. A _whole_ lot.”

“Peter—”

“You know what Francis did to him?” Peter asks, narrowing his eyes. “Ran all sorts of tests on him, almost killed him dozens of times, and left him for dead when his warehouse burned down. Then when Wade tried to kill him, he got away just before he could. Then Francis killed his girlfriend—one of the only people he had left—just to spite him. How am I supposed to ask Wade to face him again?”

Tony tries to approach Peter, but he takes another step back, away from him.“Peter, I didn’t know.”

“Of course not, how could you?” Peter lets out a dry laugh, “Do you even care? I haven’t seen you more than a handful of times since Bucky brought me home. God, Shuri came all the way from Oakland and I’ve seen her more—and you _live_ in the same fucking building _._ ”

Bruce perks up from his work, adjusting his glasses to re-read the test results, but still oblivious to the tense conversation going on in front of him. “Tony—”

Tony doesn’t notice, and instead he yells, “I’ve been in _here_ , trying to find out what they did to you, making sure you’re going to be alright!”

Peter scoffs, and looks at his feet. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Tony,” Bruce repeats, now flipping through his notepad.

“Look, I don't know what kind of shit you've been through, I didn't want to come on too strong and overwhelm you" He says, then scoffs, "I didn’t want to infringe on your privacy, especially with Wade wade around—God knows he’s always stuck to your side.”

“At least he looked for me!” Peter yells. “He looked for me and _you_ didn’t. He _found_ me when you couldn’t. So yeah, fuck me, I’m partial to him. I’ll follow him anywhere.” 

Tony feels his chest tighten.

_Did Peter really think that?_

_ That he didn’t search for him? _

“Did—did you even try?” Peter asks, his voice breaking. 

_Every day._ Tony wants to say, but the words don’t come out. He just stands there, breathless.

“Nice.” Peter presses his lips together, and starts out of the lab, before Tony could compose himself enough to speak.

 

 ***

 

_Crazed._

_That’s the only way to describe how Clint looks._

_His hair is wild and disheveled, his eyes wide and reddened. Purple bruises hang under his eyes._

_“No!” He yells, drawing his arrow into his bow and aiming it directly at Natasha’s face._

_The man in front of her is backed up against his kitchen counter, amongst a million messes. Cereal spilled, newspapers ripped, cutlery strewn about._

_“Barton, it’s me.” She says quickly, “It’s me, Nat. I’m not going to hurt you.”_

_He flinches, “Stop—stop fucking yelling!”_

_“I’m sorry,” She mouths, watching his eyes dart between reading her lips and her eyes. “I won’t yell anymore.”_

_She takes a step closer, but steps on a newspaper page, startling Clint into shooting the arrow. It wedges into the wooden floor of the cabin, and a thick black liquid pools at her feet. Poison, she realizes._

_“Okay,” She mouths again, throwing her hands up. “It’s me, Clint. It’s Romanoff. Your partner? Please don’t shoot me,”_

_She tries to take a step closer, but he yells, squinting uncomfortably at the volume of his own voice. “Don’t fucking move!” and draws another arrow. “Who sent you?”_

_The arrow is aimed directly at her heart this time—even with her instincts, she wouldn’t be able to move out of the way in time. He missed the first time because he was flustered, but he wouldn't miss again._

_It’s Clint, for God’s sake; he doesn’t miss. Ever._

_“No one, no one sent me.” She mouths the words slowly. “I’m your friend. Do you not remember me?”_

_He squints, and releases the bow-string._

“Nat! Nat, wake up!”

Natasha scrambles awake, hearing her own screams loud in her ears. 

“Are you okay?” She hears a voice ask, and feels hands on her shoulders. One of them lifts away, and turns on a light.

Warm yellow light fills the room, and Nat finally reorients herself. She’s in her bedroom in the Tower; not Clint’s cabin in Westchester. 

Not _dying_ in Clint’s cabin in Westchester.

And Bruce—his heavy hands are still on her shoulders, grounding her back to reality. 

“Sorry,” She murmurs, and wraps her delicate fingers around one of his wrists. “I’m sorry. Bad dream.”

“Yeah,” He releases her, and lays back against his pillows. “It’s been a long time since you’ve had one of those.”

“You think anyone heard?” She asks, glancing over at the bedroom door. It’s shut, but that’s no guarantee.

“I doubt anyone’s awake. Are you alright now?”

“Yeah.” She nods, regaining her composure. “I just…I’m just worried about Barton.” 

“Oh.” Bruce hums, and adjusts himself better against the pillows.

She glances over at him, to see him cut his eyes up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry to bring him up again. I’m just—”

“No, I understand.” He says quietly. 

Natasha watches intently. He licks his lips, but frowns. “But?”

“The way Bucky says he found him…the kind of testing they subjected him to; it just hits a little close to home, you know?” He whispers, and runs his fingers over the edge of the duvet. 

She nods. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

“No, no, Nat.” He turns, propping himself up to gaze down at her. “I don’t ever want to get between you two.”

“I know.”

She wiggles closer to him, pressing her lower half against his. He’s warm—like he always is. Looking up, she meets his eyes. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and runs his hand over her hair in a slow soft movement. His jaw is gruff with fresh stubble, although probably not for long, as he hates growing it out. He claims it’s itchy and not worth the distractions it causes.

“How’re your tests going?” She murmurs into his chest. 

He sighs, “I don’t know what to think anymore. I can’t begin to isolate all of the traces of crap they pumped into that kid.”

“That bad?”

“He seems to have a hematologic malignancy. I’ve run the panels thirty times—they all indicate Leukemia.” 

“What?” She pauses, “ _Cancer_? Peter has cancer?”

“That’s what the panels say.” He sighs, rubbing his brow. “But physically, he’s perfectly healthy. He’s not weakened in any way. In fact, he’s showing signs of improvement. He’s gaining weight, becoming more active. We took him off his IVs earlier today.” 

“So then?” She narrows her eyes.

“I don’t know.” he shrugs, just a little shake of his shoulders. “I don’t know why the kid has such an abundance of cancer cells in his blood that _aren’t_ killing him.”

She nods. _Maybe he developed it after their tests? Maybe all the shit they did to him made his immune system vulnerable?_ Nat isn’t a doctor—she’s not even sure that’s how cancer works. She would have to have Bruce explain it to her sometime. So many potentials, not enough time for her to explore them all.

“Have you told Tony?” 

“He’s got enough on his plate,” He says, scratching his jaw—as she suspected, the fresh stubble is irritating him. “Plus, I want to be damn sure I’m right before I tell him his kids got cancer.” 

“Yeah.” She agrees. 

She places her hand on his chest, and somehow manages to wiggle a little closer. Nat isn’t normally the one to initiate such intimacy, but tonight? Well, tonight she needs it.

She can tell Bruce is about to ask her if she’sfeeling alright, so she starts talking again. “What do you think about Wilson?”

“Wade?” Bruce chuckles, “Well, where do you want me to start?”

“You’re good at reading people—what do you get from him?”

He takes a breath, and pushes his hair back, “I don’t know. He’s annoying. Loud. Reckless. He talks to himself sometimes, like _full_ conversations, so I wouldn’t rule out him being some strain of sociopath—”

“Will he be a problem?”

“No,” He says, clearly without a shadow of doubt. “Look, I don’t know exactly how it happened, but Wade would die for Peter. I don’t know what fosters that kind of loyalty, and I ain’t asking.” 

She thinks about his response for a second, before Bruce repeats her question to her.After a beat, she answers him, “I don’t know. He’s fucked me over once before, so I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.” He says, making her smile. “You should get some rest, we’ve got to talk to the team about Clint tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” she whispers, and removes her hand so he can reach over to the nightstand, to turn off the light. 

When it goes out, she lays still for a moment, just listening to his shallow breaths, until they deepen, and he’s finally out.She, however, cannot seem to find sleep.

Her mind wanders, and she questions if anyone else in the tower is still awake. 

And what would be _keeping_ them up this late.

Tony, she thinks, is probably in his laboratory, pouring over Peter’s labs results. She hopes he doesn’t find Bruce’s notes before he has a chance to explain his findings. She’s seen him panic before—and it’s never pretty.

Peter is probably asleep. Not by will, but by way of sedatives slipped into his dinner. Wade would then definitely be awake. He’s probably beside Peter’s bed sharpening his blades, waiting for a threat to pop up to extinguish it.

Vision and Wanda—well, she still doesn’t know where they are.  Hopefully somewhere safe, naively in love. 

She hopes that Bucky is asleep. More than anyone in this building, he deserves to rest. Realistically, she knows he’s probably awake, busying himself with little tasks in his new apartment. 

Steve? She can’t seem to  think of anything that would keep Steve up at night. He’s the most sane of the bunch, it seems. With Bucky alive and well, she cant imagine anything else bothering him enough to warrant a sleepless night. 

Maybe there’s more—just beneath his surface. More that no one has been able to see, because he _doesn’t want_ _anyone to see._

Maybe he gets panic attacks, like Tony.

Or nightmares, like she and Bucky.

Maybe underneath that composed exterior, he’s got a nasty temper, like Bruce.

Maybe he has flashbacks, like Rhodey or Sam.

He’s never even hinted at anything remotely similar, which frustrates her more. For a fraction of a moment, she genuinely thinks that Steve Rogers _just_ may be out of the reach of haunting, mental trauma. 

_Maybe_ , she thinks to herself, and flattens her palm against Bruce’s bare chest again, beginning to doze off, _b_ _ut then again, probably not._


	16. 'i fuckin' knew it!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Your humble author here, offering a short scene of smut, followed by a spideypool kiss, to apologize for not being as consistent as I'd hoped to be.
> 
> I'm a college student so making preparations to head back to school, getting everything I'll need for the upcoming semester, and just adulting in general is taking up 99.999999% percent of my time. 
> 
> So life is really kicking my ass over here, but I'm back with another upload! I hope everyone's doing well & that you guys still enjoy reading this fic as much as I enjoy writing it!

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Slowly, Bucky’s eyes flutter open.

He shifts his limbs to sit himself up, but the weight of another person leaves him pinned to the mattress. At first he panics, not liking the constricting feeling, but he calms down when he touches the familiar mop of messy blond hair in his peripheral vision. 

_Steve_.

His heart flutters in his chest, as he remembers the night before. It had been filled with tears and loaded apologies, until they’d hugged. They hadn’t separated since; the entire night was spent with some part of one of them touching the other. Drying the other man’s hair. Linking their fingers together while the other brushed his teeth. 

Then, they went to bed—not because they were tired. No, it was because then it didn’t need to be said out loud; that bed was were they could shamelessly take in each other, pressed together like puzzle pieces, and neither man would have to admit that they wanted _just_ that. 

Neither of them said it, but then again, it didn’t _need_ to be said. 

It could be felt. 

In the soft yet lingering touch of a finger to a shoulder, or in the warmth of hands linked firmly together. Words weren’t necessary for them to say that they loved, because they both already knew. 

_Pretty_ , Buck thinks to himself, picking up a lock of Steve’s hair between his metal fingers. Steve would probably scowl at that choice of adjective, supplying different choices like _handsome_ , or _comely_ , but as Bucky twirls the strand around his thumb, he’s fixed on _pretty._

A loud grumble interrupts his musings, paired with Steve turning his head to face Buck, and settling his cheek on Buck’s chest. He doesn’t rouse though, so Bucky waits a few minutes, all the while admiring the slim bridge of Steve’s nose. Sure enough, another rumble fills the room. 

Buck slides his hands up and gently shakes Steve’s shoulders, “Wake up, Buddy.” 

Steve mumbles something, and buries his face in Buck’s neck. 

If feeding the blond weren’t first on his agenda now, he might have let him stay there. 

“Steve, wake up.”

“Morning.” Steve murmurs softly, but makes no motion to get up.

“Good morning.” Buck replies. “Your stomach was growling. What do you want for breakfast?”

Steve lets out a soft sound as he stretches, and James can’t help but wish that _“You.”_ would come out next. 

It doesn’t. Instead, Steve returns to Buck’s side, and shakes his head. “No breakfast. Sleep.” 

Bucky laughs, and watches the sound make Steve smile. “Your stomach was growling, Steve. You need to eat.”

“Later.” He says, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s torso. 

They lay together for a few moments, so quiet that Bucky was almost sure that Steve was asleep, until the blond shifts, and Buck feels his eyes on him.

“What is it?”

Steve inhales, “I’m just thinking,”

“About?” 

“You.” Steve says quietly, and runs his finger along Bucky’s jaw. His stubble offers a little resistance, but the slender digit still traces chin to cheek. “How are you feeling? In your head?”

Bucky contemplates the question before answering honestly. “Confused; but relieved.”

“You’ll need help figuring out the best ways to deal with all that stuff on your mind. It’s going to be scary.” 

Bucky nods. Oddly enough, Natasha pops into his mind. If anyone could be vented to and not repeat a single word, it was her. 

“The war messed up a lot of guys, you know?” Steve whispers, and lets his hand settle on Buck’s shoulder. “Some of ‘em couldn’t go home to their families. Some couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I—I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Buck.”

Bucky smiles gently, and touches Steve’s cheek. “There was no way you could.”

“I don’t know that, maybe if I’d made them turn back—”

“Steve.” Bucky interrupts. “It’s no use dwelling on it now.”

“Okay.” He says softly, threading his fingers in Buck’s hair.

“How were you?” Bucky asks, “After the war, I mean?”

It’s slight, but Bucky notices it—a tiny little stiffening of Steve’s back at the question. His breath wavers for a moment, and when Buck looks up, his eyes look _different_.

“I don’t…talk about it.” 

“Okay.” Bucky soothes, gently stroking Steve’s hair. “I understand. We don’t have to.” 

“It’s just—I don’t have it nearly as bad as some people did.” He says, after a moment of quiet. “Not nearly as bad as you.” 

“It doesn’t matter how bad it is, Stevie.” Buck whispers, “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“It’s nothing to worry about; it’s not like I get flashbacks or nightmares, at least, not often. It could be worse, you know?” He nods, but trails off, “I just—sometimes I wish it happened differently.”

“How so?”

“What if I didn’t have to crash? How many more people could I have saved? How many soldiers’ lives could I have saved if I had just _been there_?”

“You can’t do that to yourself, Stevie.” Bucky furrows his brow. “That’s not something you can change. How do you even cope—when you hold on to something so heavy for so long?”

“I don’t.” Steve says quietly. “How do you cope? Does training with Natasha help you at all?”

A flicker of annoyance—trademark of Steve mentioning just about anyone’s interactions with Buck, as he’s noticed—passes Steve’s eyes, but the question seems genuine.

“It does.” He nods. “She’s a good partner.”

“How are you dealing with the integration?”

_A loaded question,_ if Buck has ever heard one. He swallows, “I’m trying. Trying not to remember too much too quickly, but it all is just… _here_.”

Steve’s eyes settle on his again, “How are you stopping them?”

“I can’t, really. ” Bucky smiles wryly. “How are you going to deal with all that survivor’s guilt?”

“Feeling guilt is normal. It makes me human. Empathetic.” Steve shifts, but after Bucky arches his eyebrow at him, he concedes. “Nothing works.”

“Something has to.”

“One thing.” Steve says, but looks away. “I don’t talk about it anymore, but I can only forget about all that stuff for short bursts of time.”

Bucky’s face wrinkles up, confused, so Steve elaborates.

“Sex.” He says emptily. “Random, meaningless sex; it just takes my mind away for a while. Whiskey didn’t do it. Never quite had the taste for drugs—and sex, well sex feels good.” 

“Oh.” Bucky says, taking in the side of Steve’s face—pointed nose and sleek, stern jaw. 

Buck hadn’t noticed the pattern before. He does now. 

He and Steve had argued—Steve probably felt guilty about it, and _that’s_ why he brought that guy home that night. 

That’s why he’d fucked him on the kitchen table—because he needed the relief quicker than the poor kid could give it to him.

Almost immediately, his mind runs to the time they spent apart. 

While he was off saving Peter and Clint, was he here sleeping around? Bucky has no claim to Steve—he knows this—but still, the thought of someone else’s hands on the blond’s body makes Bucky sick to his stomach. 

The more he dwells on it, the more it seems probable.

The more it seems probable, the more it makes his face hot and angry.

Steve turns to look at him, and Bucky’s jaw flexes, then quietly Steve asks, “Not the answer you wanted, huh?”

 

***

 

Steve sits at one of the kitchen barstools, watching Buck dance around his kitchen to make them breakfast. What he’d told him earlier seems to be bothering him—but for the life of him, Steve can’t imagine why.

Why should Bucky care if he’s a whore in his spare time? It’s all consensual; it’s not like he’s not hurting anyone.

_Still_ , Steve notices, Bucky’s eyes are narrowed down at the pan he’s cracking eggs into, and his shoulders tense. It doesn’t make sense to Steve, until Bucky reaches for the carton of eggs and he catches a glimpse of his stomach as his shirt rides up. 

He hadn’t felt _that_ in a while. 

His mind reaches back, dwelling on their time together. Buck had been the perfect lover, and he hadn’t had another since him. _How could he?_ They read each other like only life-long friends could, and knew exactly what the other man wanted. There was no going back from that kind of satisfaction.

Steve can’t help but fix his eyes on Bucky’s face. He seems so _soft_ now _._ His hair, untied, flows around his face. His gentle grasp on the wooden spoon seems too foreign to be held by such a large person. Even the way he speaks seems softer by comparison.

“Whoops,” Bucky says reflexively, as his elbow bumps a coffee mug off the counter. But in a second, he’d caught it and was back to turning the eggs. 

Steve shifts in his seat, eyes focused on his hand. The soft, loose grip on the spoon _shouldn’t_ turn him on, but does. 

Oh, it does.

“You’re staring.” Bucky says, without looking at him. 

Steve’s eyebrows go up, and he shifts to avoid displaying his erection. “I am?”

“Mhm.” Buck’s hair falls into his face, and with a smooth swoop he pushes it back.

“Well—you just look good this morning, that’s all.” 

Bucky glances up at him now, narrowing his eyes at Steve in disbelief. Then after a moment, he chuckles.

“Excuse you,” Steve pouts, “I meant that.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

Bucky looks up again, and this time Steve almost jumps for joy. 

He’s giving him that _look_ , the one that makes Steve heart stop beating. A slow, deliberate smile appears on Buck’s face, and he leans over the kitchen island to set a soft kiss on Steve’s lips.

It’s light—barely a peck—but _slow_ , and it makes Steve’s crotch pulse.

Bucky pulls back, keeping that smile on his lips and turns the eggs over again, as if Steve wasn’t sitting inches away with an aching cock.

“What—what are you going to make me beg?” Steve chokes out. 

Buck looks up with wide gray eyes, but also that unmoving smile. “I mean, if you want to.”

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes. That seems to catch Buck’s attention, but Steve still complains. “Is this about what I said earlier? I was _good_ , you know? Haven’t seen anyone else since you left.”

“Really?” It’s Buck’s turn to be surprised.

Now realizing what he admitted, he feels his cheeks heat up, “Yes, really.” 

He doesn’t even set the spoon down before he moves—he leaves it _in_ the pan—but Steve doesn’t stop him. No, Steve is too busy trying to push breaths out and pull them in, but his heart is thundering in his ears as Bucky approaches him.

Like it belongs there, Bucky slips his hand up Steve’s neck and laces his fingers in his hair. Their lips come together again, _much_ more forcefully than before. So much so, that Steve can’t hold in the little gasp that formed in his throat. 

With his metal hand firmly clutching Steve’s hair, his flesh one undoes the tie on Steve’s sweatpants, quickly yanking them down. 

Finally, Bucky breaks the kiss, but only for a moment—only to say, “I missed you.” 

The way Buck’s hand grazes over his erection ever-so-gently makes Steve take in a quick, shaky breath; but he manages, “Me too.” 

A growl comes from Bucky’s lips as he kisses him again, this time even rougher—messier and more dominant—all tongue and quick moans. With precision, Bucky undoes his own pants and lets them pool at his ankles. 

At this point, Steve isn’t sure if he’s a man or a puddle of goop, because Bucky’s hands on him feel so _good_ , but he still wants more. His mind finally feels clear, aside from the almost unbearable pleasure making him feel woozy. 

“More,” Steve murmurs against Buck’s lips—more of _what_ , he’s not sure. Just _more_. 

“More, baby?” Bucky whispers, his voice confirming that he’s feeling _just_ as wrecked at Steve is. 

He fumbles a little to line up their cocks, but when he does, Steve almost orgasms just then. Of course he’s touch-starved, the only relief he’d felt in months having come from his own hand, but this feels other-worldly. Bucky wraps his hand around them both, pumping up and down in smooth, quick strokes. 

“Fuck,” Steve mumbles, his lips making a soft pop sound when he pulls away from Buck’s.

Steve’s grip on the back of the chair makes a small dent in the metal, but he can’t stop to think about that. Instead, he’s stuck in the sensations James gives him—his grip on his hair, the soft wet sounds coming from between them, and the unbelievable pleasure shooting through his body. _I won’t, I won’t—not yet_ , he thinks to himself, but the orgasm is building up inside him, getting bigger and bigger and threatening to explode.

Bucky sucks a little welt on the side of Steve’s neck, but Steve doesn’t complain. Even if he had wanted to, he _couldn’t_ , because his words are getting stuck in his throat. Only short gasps of appreciation make it through the vice in his mouth. 

“Come for me, Stevie.” Bucky murmurs, and Steve—well Steve could only oblige.

Hot, sticky mess covers Bucky’s hand, but he doesn’t stop stroking until he, too, orgasms.

Steve moans, slumping forward unto Buck’s chest. “Fuck—” 

Loud knocks interrupt the pair, and they both whip their heads to the front door. Silence covers them, but then Bucky grins and returns his gaze to Steve. 

“It’s probably Natasha.” He whispers, and leaves a soft kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth.

Four more knocks sound on the heavy door, and Steve sprints into action, pulling up his pants, and then Buck’s as well. James stifles a laugh as Steve tries desperately to tie his pants up with shaking hands. 

“Barnes?” A voice—clearly Natasha’s—comes from the other side of the door. 

Bucky stalks over to the front door, and doesn’t seem to be bothered by Natasha’s sudden and interrupting presence. Steve would be annoyed, but pleasure is still echoing through him, so he can’t do much besides park himself back on the barstool and hope she doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. _Highly unlikely_. 

The door swings open, and the tiny spy is on the other side. “I was beginning to think you’d slipped and fell in the tub, old man.”

“Hey, Nat.” Bucky smiles.

She stalks into the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Steve takes a long look at her. She’s wearing a slinky navy blue dress that sits against her pale creamy skin beautifully. The hemline sits just below half-way down her thigh, and long, smooth legs taper down into simple, red-bottomed black heels. 

Once she notices him, she sighs,“Steve.”

“Hey ‘Tasha.” He replies. 

She doesn’t pay much more attention to him, instead spinning on her heels to face James before speaking.It makes Steve’s chest hot with jealousy. “Rhodey, Tony and I are going to Westchester. To retrieve Clint.” 

“Dressed like that?” Bucky arches an eyebrow and shuts the front door. 

She rolls her eyes and sets a well-manicured hand on her hip. “I had a thing.” 

Bucky’s lips make a simple ‘O’ before he nods. 

She shifts her hair—curled into wavy curls—over her shoulder and says, “I was just stopping by to see if you’d be interested in tagging along.” 

“Will you need me?” He asks, seriously.

“Not sure.” She says, and Steve watches a knowing look pass over Bucky.

“You’re always sure.”

She tuts, and looks down, rearranging her stance, “Tony’s bringing some of the Iron Legion in the event we need to restrain him.” 

Bucky nods. Steve is _very_ confused now.

“So you don’t need me to help with Clint, then?” Bucky says, but Steve hears an implication in his tone. He isn’t sure just what that implication is, but its there. It’s there, and it’s _heavy,_ heavier than he’d ever imagined Buck and Nat’s limited relationship could ever support. 

“No.” She says, straightening her spine. “I guess I won’t.”

“Will _you_ need me?” Bucky asks, after a moment.

She hesitates.

Natasha Romanoff _hesitates._

“No.” She says, her voice more certain this time. “I won’t. Not until we get back.” 

“Good.” Bucky says with a soft smile, “I didn’t think you would.”

Steve isn’t sure what kind of pep-talk he’d just witnessed, or even that Natasha could ever _need_ a pep-talk, but he can’t help but notice the _ease_ it put in her tiny body. Her shoulders relax, her stance softens, her eyes slacken. 

Then immediately, she’s back to her trademark personality—impenetrable and teeming with dark energy.

“Alright then.” She quips, and looks over at Steve, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Steve feels a blush creep up his neck. _She didn’t know—she couldn’t._

“Let me know how things go in Westchester.” Bucky says, opening the front door for her. 

“Yeah.” She says, but halts in the doorway. A wicked grin spreads on her lips and she points towards the kitchen, “By the way, your eggs are burning.”

 

***

“Okay, but what if it’s not an arm, or a leg that gets removed? What if—”

“It’s my head?” Wade interrupts Peter’s ramblings. “Take a guess.”

Peter shifts on the couch, staring at Wade curiously. “Your head grows a body and your body grows a head. Then there’ll be two of you.” 

“You wish there’d be two of me, huh?” Wade teases, and tosses the blanket over Peter’s legs. “No, I don’t end up cloning myself. If I’m close enough to my body, I’ll re-attach to it. If not, it’ll take me a couple days to re-grow a body.” 

Peter stills, “So it’s happened before?”

“Yeah, princess, and it’s not pretty.” He smiles, revealing a set of perfectly straight white teeth. Peter tries not to focus on them, but he can’t exactly help it. “I’d tell you about it, but it’d probably gross you out. Also, the author is kinda lazy and hasn’t really developed my character yet, so I don't—”

“Mr. Parker, I’ve an incoming call from Mr. Stark,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupts, and a small blueish hologram appears in front of him, with a small image of the billionaire smiling.

Peter recognizes the photo—it’s from his high school graduation. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, he waves his hand and the hologram disappears. 

Wade makes a face, “You’re declining your dad’s calls now?”

“He’s not my dad.” Peter corrects, but can’t help the twinge of pain in his chest when the words leave him. “And I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Okay.” Wade says, careful not to cross any boundaries. “Is everything alright? What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk _about_ him, either.” 

“O—kay.” Wade draws out, and turns back to his own phone. “Well, whatever it is Pete-y, declining calls is probably not the answer, you know? That’s like…rude.”

Peter bites his lip and stares at the other man. Wade is different; _obviously_ , he doesn’t look or act like normal people, or even _think_ like they do. But still, he can’t help his unnatural attachment to the man. Tony clearly thinks it’s something akin to Stockholm syndrome, but he doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t feel the way Peter does when he’s with Wade. It’s something heavy and real…and Peter can’t help but enjoy the comfort of that safety. 

“He didn’t look for me when I went missing.” Peter admits.

“What?” Wade looks up.

“He didn’t look for me.” Peter repeats. “I don’t know—I don’t know why it hurts as much as it does to find that out, but it does. He’s _all_ I have. When May died, he and Pepper took me in. They put me through school. I always felt guilty that they had to put their lives on the side to deal with me, but they never complained. They never made me feel anything but welcome.” 

Wade is silent, just listening to Peter’s voice grow more and more throaty.

“They were everything to me. They came to my debates and my science fairs. I—I guess it’s just disappointing. I thought I meant something to them—to him.” Tears threaten to fall, but Peter is used to that by now. 

“Peter?” Wade asks, his voice deadly serious. “Do you _really_ think that Stark didn’t look for you?”

“He said as much, yesterday.” Peter says. 

Wade shoots to his feet, “Fine. I’ll go find him.” 

“No—no!” Peter says, clutching Wade’s sleeve. “He didn’t say so _explicitly_ , but he didn’t deny it either. I don’t know—I don’t want to complicate this any more.” 

Wade sits again, calming down—but only slightly. “How did you even get to talking about that?”

Peter swallows. “It doesn’t matter.”

Wade’s eyes narrow. “It does _now_. What did you do, Peter?” 

“He suggested that I ask you to deal with Francis yourself.” Peter says, before quickly adding, “I told him I would never ask you do to something like that—and I _wouldn’t_ Wade, I could never.”

Wade stiffens, and closes his eyes. Peter almost winces at the amount of pain on Wade’s face—and a deep sense of dread fills him, knowing that he was the one to put it there. 

_He’d overstepped._

_Crossed a line._

_He should apologize._ He begins to do so, but Wade’s voice, still and steady interrupts his thoughts.

“Do you want me to?” Wade asks, his eyes still shut.

“What?” Peter almost jumps, “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Peter, if that’s what you need—”

“Wade, I don’t fucking _know_ what I need.” Peter gasps, “I want Francis to rot in hell—God, I want it so bad, but—but I want you more.” 

Wade sighs. A soft, barely-there sound, but Peter notices it. It’s relief in his voice, as much as he tries to hide it. “I want you to be alright, Pete. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Peter stops at those words. He doesn’t know how to say it, but in his head he thinks, _I would too._

_For you, I would._

“Peter?” Wade asks, gently.

“Yes?” 

“You’re crushing my hand.” 

Peter looks down and sees that he is, indeed, still firmly clutching Wade’s wrist in his hand. “Oh! I’m sorry.”

Wade smiles, and Peter finds himself lost in his eyes for a second. _A soft sky blue, and endless_ , he thinks to himself, then immediately banishes the thought of _soft_ or _endless_ being used to describe Wade Wilson.

But _still_ , he notices the wide, spanning width of Wade’s shoulders. It does something to his chest. 

So does the sharp line of his jaw. He tries not to dwell on it, as he’s tried for the last few weeks, but _still_ , he can’t help but imagine running his lips over them. 

“Wade?” Peter whispers. 

“Yes?”

“Could you come closer?”

“Sure. Are you going to tell me a secret? I like secrets.” He smiles, “I’m absolute _shit_ at keeping ‘em, though.” 

“Yeah,” Peter whispers, his eyes glued on the other man’s mouth. “A secret.”

Peter’s quick—jumping in before he could talk himself out of it—pressing his lips to Wade’s. 

Wade stills, his body tight and rigid against Peters—but Peter doesn’t stop, because in _all_ his days, with _all_ the kisses he’s given, none have felt quite as right as this. 

Peters hands find Wade’s body, one behind his neck, the other on his cheek, and that makes Wade relax, finally kissing back.And if Peter thinks that it felt good before, being kissed _back_ by Wade Wilson makes his knees weak. 

Peter doesn’t want to pull away, but he does, feeling insecure about just how good it felt to be kissing Wade.

Wade sits back and slowly, a smirk grows on his lips, then he exclaims, “ _I fuckin’ knew it_!”


	17. Whoopsies (Deleted scene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Your humble author returns, with another fistful of apologies. I'm sorry I've been gone so long, but I've been moving into my dorm this past week. I'm just about settled, and I'll return to uploading (somewhat) regularly in the next week or so!
> 
> To hold you off until then, here's a little scene I meant to add to chapter 13/14 (I don't remember exactly which, but around that point in the plot) , but somehow forgot to.
> 
> This scene happens around the time that Bucky and Steve fall out, but before Peter visits Tony's lab in chapter 15. It's a little glimpse into Peter, Bucky and Shuri's friendship, as well as some context for Peter's PTSD. 
> 
> If you'd be interested in reading another scrapped chapter, (i.e. the one where Wanda and Bucky meet and she shows him around the apartment she prepared for him) let me know! I'd be happy to post them in-between my regular postings!
> 
> xx
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: THERE ARE REFERENCES/FLASHBACKS TO SEXUAL ABUSE AND TORTURE IN THIS CHAPTER.

“And if you wave your hand like _this_ , the display will end.” Shuri explains, as the hologram protruding from the set of beads on her wrist fizzles from view.

Peter feels a smile spread across his face as he watches Bucky be unable prevent the gleam of wonder in his eyes. Bucky had spent the early hours of the morning with him, and Shuri appeared around eleven. James had been cleared to leave his hospital room, and had been transferred to a recovery suite that he can leave as he wishes, which Peter can’t help but feel jealous about. He has many long weeks left to be spent under constant medical observation. 

Wade is the only thing making him complacent with Tony’s ridiculous wellness standards. Every vial of drawn blood,every new medication they forced in him to treat _god knows what else at this point_ —Wade is the only reason he hasn’t snapped someone’s neck by now.

“Could you do that again?” Bucky asks quietly, and Shuri smiles wide and obliges, jumping into the hologram again. 

He almost felt bad for him; Bucky was clearly dealing with something heavy. Judging from Shuri’s warning glares and Bucky’s tense muscles, it’s something that Peter didn’t want to know about. Not to mention, it was technically his fault that Bucky is even awake right now. Wade had finally agreed to leave his side to get himself cleaned up, only for a few short hours and— _only_ if Bucky would stick around Peter’s bedside while he was gone.

Of course Bucky obliged, without a hint of hesitancy. Peter is almost fed up with everyone treating him like some sort of wounded animal, tiptoeing around his frail frame and offering their help every few seconds. _Almost_ is the key there, because he isn’t yet tired of Wade. _He’s not sure he’ll ever tire of him._ Shuri and Bucky are the only exceptions; they’ve sitting with him for over hours, watching films and playing with Shuri’s tech, making him feel _normal_. 

Well, as normal as is possible for him.

But things may very well never be normal for him again.

Things grow quiet for a moment, but Shuri and Bucky haven’t stopped talking so— _no. No-no-no NO._

He’s slipping again. Spacing out. _Losing time._

He wills his eyes open, but can’t manage it. Slowly they drift shut, and everything goes silent.

 

***

 

_Restraints bind him to the operating table. Lofty voices echo through the room._

_The table is cold, much colder today than he remembers it ever being before, which could only bear bad news. Footsteps return, and the voices from before fall silent. He knows those footsteps well—a signature waltz he’ll remember until he takes his last breath. They command silence when they approach._

_“Well then, let’s have a looks-ie, shall we boys?” The voice says, and the other men spring into action._

_Peter loses his sight, as some sort of black cloth covers his face. He doesn’t even flinch. He’s beyond that sort of thing now—cloth would do nothing to scare him._

_The scrape of sharp metal against his ribs however, does scare him. He lets out a scream, but his mouth his quickly covered by a heavy palm._

_“Stop all ‘at screaming, would you?” The thick British voice coos, “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”_

_Peter doesn’t know how long it lasts, white hot pain causes his vision to lapse; he’s in and out before he comes to one final time, to sutures being placed between his third and fourth ribs._

_There are no voices in the room, no one else is present, from what Peter can hear. It’s just one set of stable quiet breaths, and the silent sound of latex gloves against metal instruments. The hand on his face is gone, everyone else is also gone. It’s just him and Freeman, and he knows exactly how this ends._

_“You’re quite the resilient little spider, you know that?”He says, as if he were speaking to a child, “Resilient as all hell.”_

_Peter doesn’t answer, so Freeman snatches the cloth from his face. “Speak.”_

_“No.” Peter slurs out, unable to say anything else. The pain in his side is decreasing, and his limbs feel like jelly._

_“Ah, you’re no fun hopped up on drugs, love.” He says, setting the instruments aside. A bandage is adhered to the new wound, and when he focuses all his attention, Peter can feel something against his skin. Something round and rough; and it feels like its inside of him._ _“But I’m afraid the pain might have actually killed you this time around.”_

_“No fun,” Peter whispers to himself, no longer able to keep his eyes open._

_The sound of a rubber glove being taken off fills his ears, before a hand comes down against his cheek, hard. The blow sobers him up a little, but not nearly enough to do anything about it._

_Freeman sighs. “It’s not fun when you don’t fight back.”_

_Peter turns his head to the side, away from the sound of the other mans voice. A cold, rough hand runs down his cheek, down his torso, all the way down to his crotch. He flinches at the touch._

_“I like it when you fight.” His voice is low and it sends cold, sharp fear down Peter’s spine. Not again, please. “You leave scratches on me, I leave bruises on you. Fair exchange, don’t you think?”_

_The very last thing Peter remembers is the sound of a zipper being undone._

 

_***_

 

“No!” He wakes up, screaming. Bucky’s metal arm is holding Peter’s hands together at his chest, while Shuri is trying to quiet all of the beeping monitors.

“Well what the hell do we do?” Bucky asks frantically. “He’s just ripped it out, he’s bleeding!” 

“Hold him still.” Shuri’s voice comes from beside him.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” Peter yelps, his voice threatening to break.

After a moment his body stops thrashing, and he feels Shuri’s hands on his arm, replacing the torn IV line. 

“Are you alright?” Bucky’s baritone voice asks, and Peter can’t help but be comforted.

He nods, and closes his eyes. The last time that had happened, he was able to wake himself before he’d started to really freak out. It seems he’s lost that restraint.

“Do you want us to get Wade?” 

“No!” he trips over the word, “No, no. It’s alright. He needs to um—he should be back soon. I’ll be fine.” 

Quiet drapes over them, before Shuri breaks the silence. “What was that, Peter?” The question is quiet, and concern is as thick as her accent.

“Bad dream.” Bucky answers before he can, and when he looks up at the older man, he knows his eyes confirm it.

“Yeah.”

“Looked familiar.” Bucky says simply, and lifts up the bedrail back up. 

“Your blood pressure surged really high, Peter.” Shuri adds.

“I feel it.” He says, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

“Is this the first nightmare?”

“No.” 

Shuri and Bucky exchange a tense glance, before Bucky sighs and clearly says “No.”

“But maybe it could help him! If he’s getting nightmares, it would be helpful to talk about them with someone who’s also been through them—”

“No,” Peter says it this time, “I’m not—I’m not ready to talk about them yet.”

“Me neither.” Bucky says, averting his eyes.

“Good.” Peter nods.

Just then, they hear a surge of ruckus coming from down the hall. It sounds like metal trays clashing against the floor and nurses gasping, so naturally, they all expect Wade’s return.

“Don’t tell him.” Peter says, glancing between his two friends. “Please.”

They both nod, Bucky probably more earnestly.

“ _Shuri_ ,” Peter whines, just as Wade yells an expletive, just a few seconds away from coming in.

“Fine.” She concedes, and returns to her seat beside Bucky.

The door opens slowly, with a sort delicacy Peter had come to associate with Wade. Not the man in general, he was quite the opposite of _delicate_ , but rather how he behaved when he was around him. 

“Peter?”

“Mhm?” Peter replies.

In the doorway stood all six and a half feet of Wade Wilson. He’s wearing a fresh mask, this one either a brighter or _cleaner_ shade of red, but instead of the rest of his suit he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved black shirt.

“You’ve got company,” He nods, but still continues into the room. He smiles over at the pair. “Princess. Guard-dog.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to take offense in the slightest. Instead, a small smile sits on his lips. 

His voice immediately stiffens when he sees the drops of blood on his sheets. “What happened? Did they send in that _dipshit_ nurse to take blood again?”

“No,” Peter says, smoothing the duvet over so the droplets were covered. “I twisted too hard in my sleep. Popped the IV out.”

Wade seems to discard the excuse as quickly as Peter formulated it.

“Well,” Shuri says, rising from her seat with a sway of long braids. “I’ve been awake for far too long,” She approaches Peter’s bedside and leans down to plant a little peck on his forehead. “Get some rest, Parker.” 

Bucky rises too, and Peter gazes at him, trying to process this sudden betrayal. “What? Don’t look at me like that, kid. Boss is back. My shift’s over.”He says, and ruffles Peters hair.

“Do you always keep the mask on?” Shuri steps up to Wade and teases, a little smirk on her lips.

“With this mug?” He gestures to his face, “I wouldn’t want to cause an international incident by—you know— _offending_ a princess.” 

She lets out a small laugh, and pauses in front of him. She tiptoes up and kisses his cheek, then in a whisper, “Take care of him.” 

Bucky claps a hand on his shoulder, _like the old man he is_ , and disappears out behind Shuri.

The quiet they leave behind is deafening, but Wade breaks it, soon enough.

“How are you feeling?” Wade asks, shutting the door behind Bucky.

Peter shrugs. 

“Well, friends help, don’t they?” He nods, smiling under the leather. “I told you they would. You even look more awake.” 

Peter shudders, his friends weren’t the reason he was so awake. He should probably tell Wade—warn him— so that he doesn’t give the man a heart attack when he wakes up screaming one of these nights.

“Yeah, they do help.” Peter smiles, still unable to deny that fact.

“You gonna tell me how that blood got there?”

“I told you—”

“You told me you ripped an IV line, but Bucky had blood on his arms.” Wade says gently, then he looks away. “Look, forget it. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to—”

“I had a nightmare.” Peter interrupts quietly. “I woke up screaming. I pulled the IV out and had to be restrained.”

Wades eyes narrow and his jaw clicks. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Peter whines.

“Sorry.” he mutters under his breath and looks away. 

Peter hates every second of this—the swirl of pity and rage in his voice, the uncomfortable silence, the hate in his own heart. For everything the sick fuck has done to him, _of course_ Peter wants to see Francis Freeman dead. A tiny part of him still wants to be the one to kill him, himself.

“I swear to God Peter, I’m going to rip his _stupid, British_ tongue clean out of his face.” Wade grits out, causing a little dent in the bedrail from gripping it so hard.

“You promised me, Wade.” Peter whispers, gently reminding him.

“Yeah, I promised,” Wade scoffs, “but you can’t even _sleep_ without being haunted by that sick fuck. What? Am I supposed to just let that happen?”

“For now—”

“ _For now_ ,” Wade says quietly. “Peter, for now, I can’t think about anything besides slicing him to bits for what he did to you.”

Peter reaches out and touches his hand. It’s the only part of his skin exposed. Thin, translucent skin stretches over the delicate muscles, and even his hand is almost twice the size of Peter’s. Slowly, Peter links his fingers in Wades, and sighs.

“We have to find out where he’s keeping the others.” Wade murmurs, “I know, and we will. And _then_ I’ll slice him to bits.” 

“He deserves to rot in a box until he kicks it.” Peter says emptily, and Wade just continues to draw their fingers closer together. “His other victims deserve that justice.”

“I don’t know, that motherfucker might get off on it.” Wade sighs. “For a dick who can’t feel pain, I think death might be as _just_ as it gets.” 


	18. budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so about posting regularly..... IM SORRY!!
> 
> I really did have every intention of keeping up with a schedule, but alas, college has gotten the best of me!
> 
> Here's a little Bruce/Natasha angst, as well as the continuation of Clint's storyline!
> 
> If you're here for it, I promise the smut will return in the next chapter!
> 
> Let me know what you guys think about the fic, if you have any ideas, comments, etc.
> 
> Also! I'm thinking about doing a mini-series of fluff/smut short stories. Let me know if you have any ideas/prompts/kinks you'd like to see in a short 1-2 chapter story. Spoiler alert: I will literally write anything you ask me to, lol! (ALMOST anything!!!)

Natasha could feel the distance growing between her body and the confidence she left behind in the city. 

She doesn’t like rural places. Although she’s brilliant at hiding, regardless of the location, she can’t help but admit that it’s much easier to do in a city. The security that came along with bustling, busy Manhattan disappears along with it’s skyline.

“You’re overthinking.” Bruce says quietly, immersed in his hologram. Looking at it, Natasha can’t focus on more than a few words, _‘Clinton’_ , and _’Permanent Auditory Restoration’_ , but nothing more.

“I am.” She admits, turning away from him.

Bruce doesn’t respond—he keeps fiddling with his hologram—but his silence is loaded with expectation, so Nat continues.

“You just don’t know him like I do.”

She watches the plane of his cheek tighten and his jaw click. He doesn’t look up, but he responds quietly, in agreement, “You're right, I don’t.” 

“I mean, I’ve seen him messed up before, Bruce, and this is something more—something worse.” She whispers, and settles her hand on his forearm. 

He looks up—with nothing but sympathy in his eyes—and smiles a small, knowing smile at her. “It’s alright to be afraid.” And then after a beat, “Maybe you should sit this one out?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“I didn’t think so.” He sighs, “But it was worth a try.”

 

***

 

Clint’s cabin is in the middle of nowhere.

Nat isn’t sure when they’d left New York and teleported into some backwoods county, but the quinjet hadn’t passed another building for quite a few minutes.

There were no roads to his lot—just tire tracks, worn through the thick grass, down to the mud. There were no buildings nearby, either. It was only discernible from the sky by the dark galvanized roof, and the mounds of halved logs piled up outside. 

“He’ll still hear us coming.” Stark says, which makes Nat roll her eyes. 

_Of course_ _he’d hear them coming_ —that was what she’d been trying to tell them for the last twenty minutes. 

But what else could they do, besides move as quickly and quietly as possible?

Stark had provided them with some of his tech—nano bots of some variation— that he’d programmed to follow little red markers on the soles of their shoes. The little bots gather together on the ground before each step to soften the sound of their footsteps. They move together fluidly, in a thick, viscous liquid. 

Nat doesn’t like them very much.

The jet doesn’t land, it just soundlessly hovers a few feet from the ground, allowing them to hop out. The silence burns Nat’s ears in a way she didn’t expect it to—it sends goosebumps up her arms, and she, for once in her life, feels _entirely_  out of place.

The front door is unlocked, and with his stun-gun drawn, Sam signals them to continue past him. They pour inside silently, and the scene they’re met with is unnerving.

The once homely cabin is now littered with torn and broken furniture. Stuffing from the couch cushions is strewn across the wooden floors, pages from Clint’s extensive book collection are torn clean from their bindings and thrown allover the hallway. 

Arrows are lodged in the walls, the floors, and the ceiling.

Air catches in Natasha’s throat. 

They round the corner to enter the kitchen, but a barrage of arrows fly at them, missing both Sam and Tony by barely an inch. 

The voice is quiet, eerily quiet, _broken_ —but definitely Clint's, “Stay back.”

“Clint…” Tony whispers, glancing at Natasha. “We’re here to help, buddy.” 

“Are you?” He asks, but his voice is thick with disbelief. He scoffs. 

“We just want to help you—we _can_ help you.” Tony begs, and tries to peek around the corner again. 

This time, an arrow grazes his helmet. 

“Stay back.” He repeats, just as quietly as the first time.

Stark sighs and glances back at the rest of the group.“Anyone else want to try?”

Bruce shifts, moving slowly, so the nano-bots can move with him. Nat shivers, watching them crawl across the floor in a thick wave of silver goo. 

“Clint?” Bruce whispers, “It’s Bruce—and—and I think I can help you.”

Clint doesn’t respond, so Bruce peaks—once again, an arrow flies out, nicking his temple. Bruce reaches up to the wound, touching the trickle of blood making its way down his face.

Sam scrunches up his face, “Ok, can we just stay _behind_ this very safe wall?”

“Clint—what they did to you, I think I can fix it.” Bruce says, leaning against the wall now. “It’s called a cochlear implant, I think I can reduce your auditory intake—”

“He can make you deaf again,” Tony interrupts, “But you have to _stop_ trying to kill us, and come back to the tower.” 

It’s quiet for a second, and for a moment, they relax. There was a sliver of a chance that they could talk him down, and they’d done it—he’d finally been able to see reason.

But Nat knows what it’s like to be cornered. 

She knows that sometimes when you’ve got no more cards up your sleeve, you flip the table. 

Natasha only just grabs the three men in front of her fast enough, before a line of arrows fly through the drywall, barely missing them. Pieces of the wall, chips of paint, and insulation fy everywhere, making the air impossible to see through.

They’re virtually stuck—Clint is making his way between them and the door—so they’re forced further into the house. 

Sam trips over one of the gutted book covers, and she barely yanks him into the spare bedroom before another arrow almost impales him. 

“Well what do we now?” Sam stutters, barricading the door.

“We split up, but someone has to get to him before he kills one of us.” Tony says. “Use the entire vial—he’s more aggressive than I thought he’d be.”

Nat’s hand automatically runs over the tranquilizer in her pocket. She didn’t want to use it—she really didn’t—but she should have expected it. _She should have expected it._

She’s having a hard time keeping up lately.

She doesn’t like it—feeling sluggish.

“I’ll do it.” She says, snatching the vial from her hip and removing the protective tip on the needle. “One of you run for the backdoor, the rest of you head towards the front of the house. I’ll flank.”

She doesn’t even wait for agreement—she breaks the bedroom window with her elbow and throws her nimble body through it. Although she can’t see her fingers through her gloves, she imagines they’re lily white from gripping the vial so hard. Again, the nano-bots are loyally weaving over and under the thick grass to cushion her steps. It makes her queasy.

She still doesn’t want to do it, and she wonders—and it’s the _only_ time she’s ever had the thought—if she’ll even be able to do this.

_Hesitant?_ That word has _never_ described Natasha Romanoff.

She waits for the next round of arrows to attack Tony and the others, and then with trembling fingers, she shoves open a window and climbs into the bathroom. 

As slowly and quietly as possible, she opens the door. Creeping out, she follows the sound of Clint’s steps. She rounds the corner to the kitchen, and sees him.

It stops her in her tracks. Even from behind, he’s terrifying. He looks like he hasn’t eaten since she’d last seen him, his arms, once leanly muscled, are now frail and thin. 

Her grip on the vial somehow tightens. 

He has his bow drawn, creeping towards the closed bedroom door. 

She should do it now. She should be quick, efficient—she should be _Natasha_ , and get the job done.

But she _can’t_. 

Her feet are planted on the floor, as if weights are attached to them. _I can’t._

_I can’tIcan’tIcan’t._

It’s _Clint_.

She feels her eyes fill with tears, but they don’t fall until Clint turns around, with his bow still drawn, now pointed directly at her head. 

She should’ve said anything, called out to the others to subdue him while he’s distracted, said his name, begged him not to kill her— _something—_ but she doesn’t. She just stands there, eyes filled with tears, waiting for her best friend to kill her. 

But Clint’s eyes shift from hers, and fix on something just behind her. His eyes soften. He lowers the bow. 

“It’s alright.” The voice says from behind her, “It’s okay, Clint. We’re here to help.” 

_Peter._

“Peter?” Clint repeats the word out loud, and furrows his brows.

“It’s alright.” The boy appears in her peripheral, slowly approaching Clint.

“What—what are you doing here?” 

“Peter stay _back,_ ” Tony barks, his concern evident.

Peter, uncharacteristically, doesn’t listen, rather continuing to approach Clint. “It’s okay.”

Clint’s face hardens and he moves to raise his bow again, but a flash of red blurs Natasha’s peripheral again, snatching the tranquilizer from her palm. 

In a just a second, Clint’s bow is hanging from a katana lodged in the wall, and he’s laying on the floor. 

Wade Wilson stands over him, and sighs, before tossing the empty syringe off to the side.

A sob chokes Nat, coming out in a soft squeak, but Tony is the one to speak first, he lunges out of the doorway and is already yelling,   “Why the hell would you bring Peter here? Do you have any idea how goddamned dangerous that was?”

“You assume it was _my_ idea? To waste my Saturday on a trip out to _bum-fuck nowhere_  just to help re-unite you super-dicks?” Wade asks, retrieving his blade from the wall, letting Clint’s boy clatter to the floor.

“Wade.” Peter whispers, effectively silencing Deadpool. Then he focuses on Tony, "I came for Auntie Nat."

Bruce interrupts, slinging Clint’s arm over his soldier. Sam rushes over to help him. “Let’s just get him back to the tower—we don’t know how long the tranquilizer will last.”

Natasha swipes her hand across her cheeks and finally looks away from Clint’s body. Then, swiftly, she picks up his bow, and heads towards the front door. 

Bruce calls out to her, but she doesn’t stop. She heads to the quinjet and waits there for them, busying herself with entering coordinates and re-checking fuel gauges. 

She hears them trudge onboard behind her, and watches Wade and Peter get into their jet as well. 

She hadn’t even heard them land—was she growing dull? It sure seems so…

She doesn’t speak another word. When Tony settles in beside her tries to ask her something, she flicks on the thrusters, drowning him out.

 

***

 

Nat didn’t move from her spot in the viewing room. Not to change out of her suit, not to return Stark’s gear—not once. She remembers how frustrated she'd felt when Steve had done the exact same thing--stood in the observatory for the entirety of Bucky's surgeries--but now she understands. She should go, but her feet wont carry her anywhere else. 

Instead, she stood firmly in one spot, watching diligently as Bruce as his team of surgeons operate on Clint. It had been a few hours, and things seem to be wrapping up. 

Bruce hands over the reins to the surgeon beside him, and instructs him to close up. He takes his time to walk over to the sanitation set-up, removing gloves and scrubs in a eerily slow manner. Withoug another word to the team, he joins Nat in the viewing room.

He closes the door behind him and sighs, but before he can speak, Nat starts, “How did it go?”

“Well.” Bruce says quietly, but with a lot more grit that she’s used to hearing from him. 

It catches her off-guard and makes her chest feel wobbly. Of all the people in the tower currently judging her—questioning her competence—she hadn’t expected Bruce to be the one to vocalize it. She feels it coming, but for the life of her, she can’t seem to prepare herself for how much it’s going to hurt.

“Oh.” She swallows. “I’m glad.”

“I know.” He says, and crosses his arms across his broad chest. “Look—I’m always going to be straightforward with you—what the hell happened back there? You had every opportunity to stop him, and you didn’t. You came _so_ close to getting yourself killed.”

His words hurt, but she responds to the pain the only way she knows how—by lengthening her spine and lying.

“The hallway was too narrow. I couldn’t have evaded the arrow and subdued him.” She whispers, her voice smooth an unaffected by the insane rate her heart is fluttering at. 

“Hallway was too narrow.” He repeats, and looks up, as if he were trying to calm down. “I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?”

Now, it’s anger caught in her throat. There were so many things— _so_ many secrets—that Bruce has kept from her, yet he’d like to accuse her of the same? 

“Yes, there was a short window of time that I could have used the tranquilizer on him, and _yes_ , I wasted that window, Bruce—but if I could have, you know I would have done anything to save him.”

“I do!” Bruce yells suddenly, and the sheer volume makes her stagger backwards. “I do know, Natasha. _Believe me_ , I know. What I don’t understand is why it’s so hard for you to admit it to yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

He grabs her wrist and shoves her sleeve up her arm. “This.”

He taps his finger on the little tattoo—no more than a half of an inch in size—of a crescent moon. Instinctively, she yanks her arm away and pulls her sleeve back down.

“Why would you lie to me about it?” Bruce asks, his eyebrows furrowed up. “You didn’t think that I’d ever see his? Did you?”

She swallows. She doesn’t talk about the tattoo—she doesn’t talk about that _time_. It hurts too much to.

His fists ball up at his sides, and the sound of his knuckles cracking snap her back into reality. “I didn’t.”

Bruce nods. “Explain. You told me it was just something stupid you did—that it didn’t mean anything to you. Why does Clint have the matching tattoo?”

“Budapest.” She whispers.

Bruce’s eyes grow glossy with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall. “What? _Budapest?_  That’s all I get? You said that there was nothing there between you— _never_. Then you’re all but ready to die for him? Then you’ve got _matching tattoos?_ ”

Bruce is about to walk out when she starts to respond. He pauses at the door. 

“We tried it… being with each other. It didn’t work, Bruce—it never does.” She says, willing her voice to be calm, but ultimately failing. It hitches and breaks, and for once—for _Bruce_ —she doesn’t try to stop it. “He would get jealous, and so would I. We decided we worked too well as partners to jeopardize that relationship. There’s nothing there anymore—nothing left of it. Just the tattoos.” 

“I don’t care that you two dated, Nat, I care that you lied to me.” He mutters, “You know—I’ll always respect your right to keeps some parts of your past private— _always_ , Natasha—but when I deliberately _ask_ you something, I don’t appreciate being lied to.” 

“I’m sorry.” Nat sobs, “I’m sorry, Bruce. I didn’t—I couldn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, me too.” He nods. “I guess—I just thought we were different this time. I thought you loved me enough to be honest with me. I guess I thought that I meant something to you.”

_You do!_ She wants to scream, but her voice is trapped in her throat. _How could he think that of her?_

It’s no secret that people think she’s cold and callous—but Bruce? He was the only person who could say he’d witnessed the opposite firsthand. 

He nearly snaps the door handle in half as he leaves, and finally, tears start falling from her eyes. A few short gasps escape as well, until she sees one of the surgeons cross from Clint’s body to the sanitation station, just as Bruce had. 

Almost mechanically, her demeanor shifts. With a swipe of her hands to dry the fallen tears, every morsel of emotion is gone.

Sure enough, the surgeon walks into the observation room, seconds later. “Dr. Banner—”

“He’s returned to his office.” She says evenly, “How is he?”

“He's doing well!” The surgeon smiles, “He’ll just need to sleep off the anesthetics.”

She nods, calm and collected—but can’t deny the swarm of emotions threatening to burst out of her. “When should we expect him to wake up?”


End file.
